Letters From the Pacific Front
by SBishoptheBard
Summary: Dr. Sebastian Dwightly Bishop is a Muggle-trained wizard psychiatrist, stuck as a half-cat person due to an improperly brewed Polyjuice Potion he fixed while at school. How will this kind-hearted shrink, a virgin to war, handle the hell to be found in the Pacific Campaign of America's civil war? A canon spinoff/supplemental to "Adventures of Harriet Potter" by kleinnak
1. Prologue

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

Prologue

"It was once my duty to know people. During my tenure in the Ministry, and onward into my career at the Academy, I've come to know many persons, wizarding and Muggle alike. In all that time, I've become certain of exactly two things: one, we are all one human race, and two, I will never fully understand them."

Sherrod Howe

August 1, 1994

Dear Finnbar,

How are things back home? Weather's been typical for Northern Ireland, and you'll be glad to hear that the Muggles round here have rather quieted down, it seems! Made me quite happy for old Bishop that his rally went undisturbed, for the most part (more on that later). In any case, now that it's done, I'll likely be home by tomorrow, once I've taken in a bit of local color. There's a good German opera playing just down the street; quite retrospective, as I say, and I'd hate to miss it.

Now I know you wished to meet the good doctor, but fear not. I intend to regale you with all the essentials. It will be as though you were there yourself! Here's how it began:

For a Monday, Great Victoria Street was very typically busy. As a general rule, Great Victoria is perhaps the foremost thoroughfare in Belfast, and one that the Muggles of the city count on quite heavily, as it houses the Belfast Great Victoria Street railway station, its central position allowing for easy walking to the shopping streets, to the Grand Opera House, the Odyssey Arena and the Crown Liquor Saloon, and of course, the famous Europa Hotel, the so-called "most bombed hotel in Ireland", which only reopened last February.

By the entrance to the parking garage, there's a broom closet, so cramped and tucked away in the corner, so blended in with the color of the rest of the wall, you'd never see it if you didn't already know it was there. Being that I come here so often to hear my good friend speak, I knew exactly where to find it.

My hair was just the way I like it, and I had just the right layer of stubble on, along with my favorite charcoal-colored ascot. To occupy my thoughts, I allowed myself to chuckle at the thought of how ironic the hotel stood; all the different points of attack the IRA could even now pursue. Quite bewildering, I say, that Muggles insist on building these skyscrapers so damn tall, and yet afford so little protection to them. Just whatever happened to a good old fashioned stone castle, eh Finn? But, I digress.

Once I stepped into the closet, I tapped the three bricks sticking out of the wallpaper with my wand, and in an instant, the wall pushed backward on itself, stretching into a modest-sized hallway, before suddenly dropping into a spiral mahogany staircase. I observed from all the smudges on the railing that the hotel was quite bustling, as there were so many handprints adorning said railing, and no one had yet bothered to come wipe it down. Far be it from me to leave such a thing unattended, I took the liberty myself, casting a simple charm to clean it off. Then, after replacing my wand back in its pocket, I began down the hall, and from there down the stairs. I was quite excited for my impending performance, so I must confess I had quite a spring in my step.

At the bottom of the staircase, which was quite a long ways down, I then found myself in the quaint lobby, about the size of one of our classrooms at Rathlin, with red and black checkered tapestries, elaborately-patterned, yet faded carpet, some lived-in couches and chairs beside a roaring fire off in the corner, and in the opposite corner, beside an archway and raised portcullis, was the Hotel Victoria front desk, manned by a goblin with a long black beard, and checkered robes which matched the tapestries.

The goblin continued on writing in a ledge that was about the size of him, as I walked towards the desk, admiring the gigantic wall of shining keys behind it. When I reached the desk, I promptly rang the bell twice, and gave a smile at my host, who slowly looked up from his book, glaring, yet also attempting to smile.

"Welcome to the Hotel Victoria, sir," the goblin crackled, "How may I help you?"

"I'm here for the rally, chap," replied I, "My old friend Sibs is speaking here, Dr. Sebastian Bishop? He usually speaks in conference room four?"

"Conference room four…" slowly, methodically, the goblin host flipped through his ledger, ran his bony finger down each page, and turned again, all while I watched, trying to maintain my smile, for the sake of the moment and for politeness. You never know with these goblins; clever, but not the most friendly of fiends.

"Ahhhh, yes," the goblin tapped at a particular spot on the page, "Dr _._ Bishop, of St. Mungo's. Unfortunately, conference room four was reserved this year, in favor of a charity auction, a benefit for those affected by the current conflict in America. Dr. Bishop's rally had to be moved to a...somewhat smaller venue. Conference room eight."

"Ah, say no more, friend," I tapped the desk, "I know the place. As I recall, the guests all gathered there for a party back when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was destroyed. I remember Albus Dumbledore even made an appearance. Crashed the party, held a toast, took my last bag of lemon drops and buggered off before you could say 'Bob's your uncle'. You weren't working here back then, were you?"

The goblin shrugged.

"Anyhow, I can find my where there alright. Thank you kindly, sir!"

The goblin simply nodded, and returned to his writing as I sped down under the portcullis and left down the west conference hallway. I've never been late to one of Sibs's rallies, and I'd be damned if I started now.

Now Finnbar, I need to tell you something about conference room eight, as it speaks greatly to poor Sib's state of mind prior to his speech:

Aside from its historical significance to the Hotel Victoria, being the room that hosted the official celebrations of Voldemort's fall, for all of Belfast, and the event which caused the hotel's prominence as the premiere wizarding hotel in the whole of Northern Ireland, it was a rather embarrassing place to host a political rally. The whole reason that the party was hosted there to begin with, was because it was the only vacant conference room at the time. Why? Because no other conference wanted to be held there. It was not only the smallest conference room in the hotel, being only slightly larger than a cinema screening, and not only was it perpetually smelly due to the ghoul living under the floorboards, but it was also situated right under the honeymoon suite, and right next to the kitchens. While magic could block out the noise, the _vibrations_ were much more difficult to block out...from both.

I imagine Sebastian could only hope, as he sit at his dressing vanity backstage, that nobody had gotten married in Belfast recently.

As I snuck up behind him from backstage, he was wearing his finest dress robes, as always, with a red rose inside his right lapel, a good-luck charm his wife had given him before taking her seat. I perceive if he had placed it there himself, it would've been in his left lapel, naturally, since he's right-handed, as is his wife (yet again, I digress).

His salt-and-pepper hair had just been neatly greased and combed to his liking, straight with a small cowlick in the front. His fur was a healthy orange, well-groomed and fluffy after some two hours of tender, loving care. As he held his flash cards in one padded hand, tapping them against the table, the fingers of his other hand drummed against his lap, while his tail nervously swung this way and that behind him. Speaking he could handle, but the waiting is what kills him, poor lad.

"Sibs!"

Sebastian jumped in his seat, startled before he could turn around and see who it was. In the reflection of his vanity, his inspiration (if I may put modesty aside), his friend and mentor, yours truly, Headmaster Howe, stood behind him, my thumbs hooked into the pockets of my vest. Upon seeing me, Sebastian took a sigh of relief.

"Sherrod!" he smiled, then got up from his stool and embraced his old friend.

"Good to see you, doctor!" I hugged back, "How's Hannah?"

"She's great, thanks. She'll be really happy to see you, you hardly ever visit anymore."

"Ah, recent affairs are keeping me occupied, I'm afraid. Times are changing over at Rathlin, and your alma mater as well."

"I heard. You really did get to meet Harriet Potter, then?"

"That I did."

"And what they're saying about Black? He was innocent all along?"

"Well, there's a trial going. That's all I can say."

"All you can say _,_ eh?"

I winked, and Sebastian laughed.

"Very well," the doctor shrugged, "You have your adventures, and I have mine. Speaking of which?"

"Oh, right! When do you want me to go on?"

"Whenever you're ready, boy."

"Good, let's go now!"

"Well, wait a minute—!"

It was too late. I had already pushed myself through the checkered curtain, and was awaited to the sound of a modest-sized audience applauding, some whistling.

"Okay, okay, thank-you everyone," I began, "My my, I don't recognize some of you, and I never forget a face. How 'bout it, lads? Golly wiz, are we really this popular now?"

The crowd laughed for a while.

"Now, since we do have some new faces now, some introductions are in order. My name is Dr. Sebastian Bishop," the crowd laughed again, "And these rumors about me being a freakish cat man, really need to stop," they laughed harder.

"No, no, I'm kidding, obviously. My name is actually Sherrod Howe, Headmaster at Rathlin School of the Arts and Magic, and I'm a friend of the cat-man," a couple laughs there, but not nearly as many, "And you did hear me right, I said 'doctor'. In addition to being the Potions Master in charge of mental health, up at St. Mungo's, he is also a Muggle-trained psychiatrist, and was a fine addition to their psychiatric department, which even now remains the fastest-growing branch of medicine in magical Great Britain today."

A modecome of applause ensued.

" Now me and Bishop have known each other for about a decade now. Our friendship grew through letters to me at Rathlin, and I learned through our correspondence, just how much my school's legacy has made an impact on some people. Him, obviously, but many of you as well, since you're here. Well, some of you at least. I got to figure a few of you came because your girlfriend promised you pussy if you came with her, and you just—" roaring laughter ensued, "Just completely misunderstood her." the tittering went on, then died down a bit.

"So then, without further ado, it is my sincere honor, to welcome to the stage, the man who's apparently going to end the Statute of Secrecy and bring about world peace, or some such thing," some laughs came from that, followed by a roaring applause, "Please welcome Dr. Sebastian Dwightly Bishop, founder and president of the Re-Integrationist Party of Great Britain, and your candidate for Wizengamot!"

With confident stride, I heard Sebastian get up from his stool, and looked on with pride as he stepped through the curtain, waving at the now-standing crowd of around a hundred or so people. Behind the glare of the stage lights, he could see his darling Hannah raising her fists as she called his name, her white robe and blonde hair adorned with every kind of flower.

He bit his lip with glee, then waved at the crowd some more, and shook my hand as he took his place at the podium, which had the banner "Bishop for Wizengamot - Unite the World" hanging from the front. While everyone took their seats, Sebastian placed his cards down, took a deep breath, and picked up the slide-show clicker from its place on the podium.

"Good evening," he started, "I'm Dr. Bishop, and I have to thank Professor Howe for his...kind words," he got some awkward chuckles out of some of the audience, then continued, "Some introductions on my part, for those who're just joining us.

"Both my parents were from Belfast, but I was born and raised in London. When I turned eleven, I, with most other British kids, was sent to Hogwarts, where I was sorted into Slytherin House, much to the surprise of my parents, both Hufflepuff and proud of it. Now I know I don't conform to what you might see as the stereotype of a greasy-haired, scheming Slytherin, but well, that's a whole nother conversation in itself. Suffice to say, I'm an ambitious man. I'm also seriously skeptical of authority, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that." That got some modest applause.

"Now, to address the elephant in the room...my appearance. You see, I was never all that good a student, but I was pretty alright in Potions. So good, in fact, that I had it in my head to try and brew a bit of Polyjuice Potion. Unfortunately, the hair sample I thought belonged to my mate, Billy Williams, actually belonged to his cat. Thing is, Polyjuice Potion is meant for human transformation only. With animal hair, the effect is permanent unless it's brewed _perfectly_...mine wasn't. So, thanks to my twelve-year-old pride, here I stand before you, fluffy and adorable as ever!

To Sebastian's surprise, he got some applause out of that.

"So anyhow, once I graduated with tops in my Potions NEWTs, and found a modest living as a healer's apprentice in Oxford, I had it in my head to go to Muggle university, even though my parents both said I was fine with my lot as it was, especially considering I only got into that apprenticeship because I didn't score high enough on all my NEWTS to become a proper healer. Once I did start upon this path, however, I knew right away I wanted to study psychiatry. While wizarding medicine is, of course, much more advanced and consistent than Muggle drugs, we wizards have very little in terms of proper psychotherapy training, but we'll get to that later.

"For now, let it simply be said that I applied as a Muggle, with credentials afforded to me by the Ministry, as well as a more properly prepared batch of Polyjuice Potion, and eventually got accepted to the University of California in Los Angeles, where I received a Muggle undergraduate degree in psychology, a medical degree, and three years residency in a Muggle psychiatric ward in Beverly Hills. Incidentally, my personal journal from my time in America has since been published into a book, 'Healers Without Magic: Adventures Living as a Muggle Psychiatrist'. It'll be up for sale after the rally, all proceeds will go towards the Mental Health wing of St. Mungos.

"Anyways...something I ended up learning, as I lived over there, was just how similar the Muggles are to us. They go to their day jobs, they love their families, they want a good life for them. This got me intrigued, as I'd never given much thought to the Muggles as people before my little odyssey. I, like most wizards, saw them as little more than savages, eh? People who must just be miserable without magic to run everything, or so I thought. Little did I know just how much they get along without it, just how inventive they've had to be to survive, and just how much we ourselves owe to them.

"The train, the automobile, the Gregorian calendar, the parliamentary system of government, chocolate— for God's sakes, CHOCOLATE!" more awkward laughter, "All Muggle inventions. So once I'd settled into my new position at St. Mungo's, I began doing my own research into Muggle/wizard relations since the adoption of the Statute of Secrecy. What I found surprised me."

He clicked the button in his hand, and suddenly, the slide show he'd prepared illuminated onto the white screen to the left of him. On it was projected a map of the UK, with red dots on it, here and there.

"It turns out, there are several small wizarding communities dating back to _before_ the Statute of Secrecy, communities of a few hundred or less, where Muggles and wizards actually do live in cooperation with each other. Often times the Muggle populace is confunded, but _sometimes_ , at least some of the Muggles know that wizards live among them, and have for centuries. Such folks accept this as part of their town's culture, and remain tolerant of their magical neighbors. Iin turn, this cultural acceptance and sparse population makes them a tolerated exception to the Statute of Secrecy itself. Such examples of these towns are Godric's Hollow in the West Country, Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon, and the most famous example, and the subject of our talk tonight, Rathlin Island, just off the coast of Ireland.

"Now the island itself is recorded as having only about six or seven dozen permanent residents, all Muggles, mostly fishing families. However, as we all know, Rathlin island also happens to be home of the famed Rathlin Academy, which houses a student body of sixteen hundred, from all over the world, having both a primary school and a secondary school, accepting Muggles and wizards alike. Of course, in the Muggle world, it's known simply as an arts school.

"What's amazing about Rathlin to me, however, is in fact the secondary school. You see, after a student completes the already-exclusive primary school, they must next test into the secondary school, the Academy proper, where they choose their major field of study. For the select few Muggles that pass, and enter into the Academy, tradition dictates that they be let in on the truth of the existence of wizards. Those who accept and tolerate this fact, and swear their own secrecy on the matter, are allowed admission to the Academy. The few who don't have their memories modified, and are ejected back to their homes.

"From there, Rathlin becomes a Re-integrationists dream. While classes are distinct between Muggle and wizarding students, they still live together, befriend one another, form lifelong friendships and relationships. It was this, my friends, that inspired me to run for Wizengamot.

"Now friends…"

Just then, the chandelier hanging above began to shake loose in its moorings, as a rhythmic _thump_ reverberated off the creaking walls, like the ticking of a clock. An awkward silence filled the room, before Sebastian began to clear his throat.

"Friends...despite the coined term we use, 'wizarding world', to refer to wizarding society, the truth is that there is only one world, Planet Earth, and we share it with Muggles. While I would not call Muggle existence 'miserable' as I once did, they do suffer from societal ills that would be unthinkable to we wizards."

He clicked the button again, and shuffled through a slide each depicting starving African children, a bald, emaciated man in a hospital gown, and a smog-choked London.

"Starvation, diseases such as cancer and AIDS, homelessness, pollution; all things, you'll notice, are easily solvable with magic. Were it not for the Statute of Secrecy, we could magically produce enough food to feed the entire Muggle population on earth for decades, all in less than a day. We could provide more reliable, and faster-working medicines and potions, and instruct Muggle doctors in their production. We could transfigure all the carbon dioxide in Earth's atmosphere into rainclouds!

"In the case of pollution, this is an especially dire situation. Due to ever-rising carbon levels in Earth's atmosphere, both Muggle and wizarding scientists agree that over the next several decades, the planet's climate will be irreversibly changed, due to the greenhouse effect. This is something that affects both wizards and Muggles alike, yet it is something we are powerless to do anything about. To do so would reveal us to the world.

"And my friends...that's what we are going to talk about today. Over the course of this evening, myself and several other experts will, using Rathlin Academy as a model, outline my own Seven Year Plan, on how we, as a collective wizarding society, can reintegrate magical persons into Muggle society, for the first time in a thousand years, following an abolition of the Statute of Secrecy, and how, in doing so, we can increase the quality of life for Muggles everywhere, for the mutual benefit of all humanity. My friends...let's begin."

It was at this point that the rally commenced in earnest. He described to us in detail how he'd first have us present ourselves to the parts of all non-executive branches of Muggle governments, who don't already know. From there, spend some time acclimating before going to the Muggle media, and so on and so forth, all leading up to year seven, when we open all wizarding borders to their Muggle counterparts. Everyday Muggles will, for the first time, be allowed to shop at wizard stores, and one day even attend wizard schools.

Damn respectable effort he's put into all of this, considering it will probably never happen (don't tell him that though, else he'll give you an earful). Even if he was elected to Wizengamot, and somehow got appointed Minister at some point, the British Ministry of Magic doesn't have anywhere near the authority to implement what he proposes. That power would rest solely with the International Confederation of Wizards. Now he knows this, mind you, and you know what he said?

"One step at a time, Sherrod. Every movement starts small."

He's got commendable optimism, that man; tragic, but commendable.

In any case, this letter has gone on a bit too long, and I'd hate to overburden ol' Doyle with too heavy a parcel, poor bird. So I'll just leave you by saying I eagerly await seeing you and Colm again, at which time we simply must have tea and biscuits at that spot in the village we like. My treat.

Your humble guardian,

Sherrod

* * *

To whom this concerns,

Your message was well-received. We shan't attempt to contact you in person again, and not least because President Hudson has submitted a formal statement to the press announcing her condemnation of your recent activities. Not that it matters. We've left no paper trail, and all of Waterman's family are either dead or in Britain. Besides that, he was a pretentious simpleton. He will not be missed.

In any case, please accept the enclosed bearer bond as your final payment for services rendered, as well as this friendly reminder to our agreement:

Wherever you go, whatever you do, stay out of Rocky Mountains. It would be in your best interest to do so.

— D

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Finn and Colm Negus are property of kleinnak


	2. Chapter 1

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

Chapter 1

"I can personally attest to the old maxim that if you love your job, you never truly work a day in your life. It is for this reason that I both weep for, and applaud the unlucky majority, which were instead stuck with a humdrum day to day. They're more patient men than I, God save them."

Sherrod Howe

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES

Progressive Scholarship Program

HM Gacy Institute For Wizarding Higher Education

UCLA

10833 Le Conte Ave,

Los Angeles, CA 90095

August 17, 1994

Sebastian Dwightly Bishop, MD

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical

Maladies and Injuries

The Purge and Dowse, Ltd Building

London, England W6 8NJX

re: Summons from the United States Magical Congress

A Call to All Magical Alumni of Muggle Universities

Dear Dr. Bishop,

The Progressive Scholarship Program would like to extend our warmest greetings to you. We sincerely hope your Muggle education in Medicine has enriched your life well, and broadened both your horizons and opportunities in an increasingly more open wizarding world.

We write this letter to you, as well as to all other Alumni of our program, at the request of our namesake donors, and founders: the Progressive Party of Magical Congress.

As I'm sure you know, for the past two years, the Magical United States (MUS) has been embroiled in a terrible civil war, which has thus far claimed more than a hundred thousand lives, and rising. Not since the rise of the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald has the wizarding world seen bloodshed of this caliber, and never have the wizarding folk of America been in such dire need of aid.

Unlike many others of our kind, you have a connection to the MUS, and it's people. You, among many others, have participated in a program designed specifically to join the disparate people's of the wizarding world into the melting pot America has always meant to be, where witches and wizards may obtain a more broad understanding of the universe apart from magic, and come to a greater level of wisdom and knowledge.

For these reasons, we call upon you, to sign up with your nearest American Foreign Division recruiter, and enlist either as a civilian volunteer, to aid in the MUS army's many humanitarian efforts in war torn areas, or alternatively, as an enlisted soldier, to fight against the tyrannical oppression with which the Secessionist movement threatens all within its borders.

If you believe yourself ready to answer this call for aid, please send an owl with the enclosed paperwork to the address listed below. You may then await the AFD's response, where you will be assessed, processed, and sent with your fellow volunteers to the Capitol Building in New Orleans, for orientation.

We understand, of course, that this is no small request on our part, so if you find you cannot afford to risk so much in this endeavor, then instead we humbly ask that you send a donation in care of any one of the enclosed charity organizations, which have proven to be invaluable in the fight against Secessionist destruction. You may also consider investing some money into MUS war securities, via Gringott's Wizarding Bank American Headquarters, in New Orleans (address listed herein). Every knut helps.

We hope to hear from you soon, whether with a generous donation, or volunteer paperwork.

Sincerely,

Grace Gacy-Gibbs,

Executive Director,

HM Gacy Institute For Wizarding Higher Education

* * *

United Kingdom of Great Britain and Wales

Ministry of Magic

Department of Health and Medicine

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical

Maladies and Injuries

Psychiatric Ward, Office 1A

Treatment and Inspection Report

 **Patient Name:** Longbottom, Alice

 **Patient ID #:** 2077

 **Sex** : F

 **DOB:** October 20, 1960

 **Housing:** Janus Thickey Ward

 **Nationality:** English

 **Blood status:** Pure

 **Procedure:** Talk-therapy, combined with exposure to relevant photographs and mementos on 21-AUG-94

 **Reporting Date:** 21-AUG-94

 **Report By:** Sebastian Dwightly Bishop, MD

 **Talk Therapy:**

Alice was calm and relaxed during most of our talk, having just recently had her bath. While she was still not able to speak in response (with one exception), she was cogent enough to give positive or negative responses in the form of smiling, nodding, clapping, frowning, shaking her head, covering her eyes with her hands or bedsheet, etc.

I began with a soothing introduction, and asked her if she remembered me. In answer, she handed me a gum wrapper from under her pillow. When I thanked her, she smiled and gave a soft, guttural laugh. It should be noted that Alice only gives objects such as food packaging and candy wrappers as gifts to people she responds to most positively, namely her son, myself, and Madam Strout.

Afterward, I proceeded to tell her about my day at work thus far, and though she showed no emotion during this, I seemed to have had her undivided attention, as her eyes never left mine. This is in direct contrast to her husband, who has shown to be easily distracted, and is wont to stare off into space whenever we talk.

The patient was then shown a series of five flashcards, containing the simple words: cat, mat, sun, moon, and stop. She was shown them in silence, without our coaxing. At the "stop" card, Alice shrieked "stop, stop!" then calmed down once the card was moved out of sight. She showed no response whatever to any other card.

Afterward, once Alice was completely calm, we began showing her a series of mementos. The first was her own wand: elm and dragon heartstring, eight and a half inches, slight yielding. I described her wand as such to her as I held it out. She took it from my hand by the middle, then threw it across the room, laughing as it bounced around on the floor before stopping.

Next was shown the house-key to her old home in the city. Given that last week she nearly ate it, I made it a point to remind Alice that the key was not food. Though I was ready to remind her again when the key touched her lips, she hesitated, shaking her head. I told her, "That's right, Alice, good job! The key is not food, right?" To this, she nodded. Then, slowly she held the key out in front of her and turned it, as if to unlock something. "Very good, Alice! That's right, that key unlocks a door, remember?" She merely smiled, perhaps just at being encouraged.

The last memento showed her was her wedding ring, a simple gold band with a red diamond, a tiny flaw on top in the shape of the Gryffindor lion. To this, she merely plucked it from my hand with two fingers, paused, and let it drop onto her lap, leaving it forgotten. There was no feedback, positive or negative, from her.

Lastly, we began showing her photographs. The first was her own wedding photo, with her and Frank at the altar. I asked her if she recognized anybody in the picture, and after puzzling over it for three minutes and forty-two seconds, she pointed to her husband, Frank. The next photo was of her son, Neville, with his grandmother, Augusta, taken recently at his 14th birthday. This seemed to upset her, as she began softly weeping, but when we tried to take the photo from her, she pulled away, growling. After looking at it for a few more minutes (two minutes and fifty five seconds), she let the photo fall to the floor as she began staring into space, her eyes slightly red.

Though we had more photographs, by Madam Strout's insistence, we ended the session here.

 **HEALER:** Miriam Strout

 **PSYCHIATRIST:** Sebastian Dwightly Bishop, MD

 **Summary:**

Alice Longbottom remains more cogent than her husband, capable of very basic forms of communication, retains some memories and the ability to form new ones, yet remains mentally invalid.

In light of the new data we've derived from this session, we can now extend the vocabulary of words Alice can still read and/or say to four: please, no, Frank, and stop.

Her attachment to material objects from before her capture remains next to nill, though the fact that she remembered the function of a key without our coaxing is quite a breakthrough.

It is unknown whether she remembered Frank in the photograph from her wedding, or if she merely remembers him as being a fellow patient, but the fact that she has suddenly acquired the wherewithal to be sad over her son not being there, wanting and even demanding to look at the picture despite her own sadness, is a breakthrough unlike any we've seen of her yet.

 **Healer's Personal Notes:**

I don't know what those Muggles taught this poor boy back in the States, but forgiving the handicap of his training, he's a saint if ever I've seen one. When Mrs. Longbottom handed Bishop the gum wrapper, he looked upon it as if it were made of precious gold. He thanked her as if it was the most amazing gift he'd ever received. I've never seen anyone make Mrs. Longbottom that happy. He may not be a healer, but Bishop is one of the most compassionate people that I've ever seen work in this place. I may doubt these hogwash methods of his, but as long as poor Alice is improving as she has, I say we go with whatever works.

* * *

August 21, 1994

Dear Diary,

Just saw Mrs. Longbottom again today. She learned a new word (or perhaps merely remembered it) and seemed to recognize her son in a photo enough to be sad about her situation. Plus, she even remembered how a key works. Three breakthroughs in one day! I must say, it did do my heart good to see her doing so well. It was quite a pleasant change of pace from the lab, getting a chance to work with a patient in person again. Were it not for the more desperate cases in Janus Thickey, I'd be little more than a glorified Potion Master here.

I hesitate to complain, because I do good work here, and everyone lets me know it. The lads keep to their schedules, I keep to mine, and together, we make much-needed medicine for dozens of patients. I don't doubt the importance of the work, merely my importance in doing it. I mean, what can I do that any of the others at the lab can't? Any sufficiently trained sixth year could brew an Elixir of Euphoria, or a Draught of Peace, and those make up the bulk of what we prescribe. I have to wonder just what separates me from that sixth year, apart from my salary.

Still, I suppose it's better to be me than poor Frank down there, the poor fellow. I'd give anything to free his soul from that ruined brian, give my life if it meant he could finally meet his son. All I can hope is that one day Alice will evolve past her disability enough to at least be able to say hello to him. Between that hope, and ol' Hannah, it's enough to keep me going. I wish I could do more, but the Lord knows I have plenty of blessings in my favor.

Just now got home. Received my mail while waiting for Hannah to finish up at Jackie's. Bills, thank-you cards from patients, voter polls, fan letters about the book, and interestingly enough, a letter from my alma mater across the pond. Smart of the Congress, I say, using their scholarship program to beg for volunteers. Can't say it isn't working. It's been so long since I've been in Cali, and so much has happened.

To be truthful, I haven't spoken much about the war, partially out of fear for my former colleagues. My roommate especially, Spencer Jones. Poor lad said he was from Utah, and Utah seceded, if I recall correctly. I can only pray the man had the good sense to stay home with his boyfriend when all this started, though I suspect he did not have it. Jones was a political science major, more radical than me, and I was the kid with Grindelwald posters hanging all over the dorm. Makes me sad to think of him, fighting for those bigoted maniacs.

Still, it is an interesting thought all the same, becoming a military doc. I've looked over the paperwork they sent; they'll cover all my expenses for a year, grant me a modest stipend, and pay a fair readjustment allowance once the year's out. It's knuts compared to what I make now, but at least Hannah would be alright while I was gone. Not to mention the obvious fact that there are obviously people over there who could use the help!

I recall reading in the Muggle news just how much psychological damage the conflict in Vietnam caused its veterans: post-traumatic stress, substance addiction, homesickness, plenty of things potion alone can't fix. What's more, I've seen with my own eyes what You-Know-Who's war did to poor Hannah; I've weathered it with her for almost ten years. Hard to imagine a hundred thousand cases such as hers…

Ah-ha, but far be it from old Sibs to drop everything at a moment's notice. It's fun to think about, me going on an adventure like that, but I couldn't possibly, could I? Too much to lose.

Speaking of Hannah, she's home from the shop! Just popped in over the Network. Sounds excited about something, she's demanding I come "right this goddamn minute". Speak later, diary. My beloved awaits me.

* * *

August 22, 1994

Dear Diary,

It's morning now. Hannah and I made love last night, after dinner. We try to get it in at least once a week, but we haven't done it for that long since last New Year's Eve, and not so enthusiastically for years! She was feeling extraordinarily frisky last night, couldn't keep her hands off me. Said Jackie, her boss, had a new recipe for a love potion (one that only worked on someone you were already in love with), and she volunteered to test it out. She'd already taken a dose, and talked me into taking one as well. My summary? It works. Well.

Anyhow. I'm writing this because Hannah's still asleep, and I just have to describe what I'm seeing:

She's sprawled out on her stomach, naked as the day she was born. Her long blonde curls running all the way down to the small of her back, covering her whole upper body like a blanket. She's so warm, and she smells so good; musky, but overwhelmingly flowery, from how she likes to decorate herself. I nuzzled my nose into it, and she merely squirmed in her sleep, with a soft, sleepy moan. On a whim, I started gently rubbing my fingertips against the skin of her bum, and it grew gooseflesh at the touch.

The sun is peering out the curtains, hitting it so as to accent every muscle, every curve of her lithe body. I can't say if it's the potion, or just nature, but I...

* * *

 _Bishop closed his diary then, setting it on his bedside table beside the lamp. As Hannah turned her back to him to lay on her side, Bishop wrapped his arms around her, one hand on her breast, the other between her legs, as he pressed his body into hers, letting out a genuine purr. He was so loud in this, that he'd finally managed to wake up Hannah, who sighed contently, and placed her hands over his, running her fingers through the thin layer of fur._

" _Mmmmm…" she hummed, "Morning, Dr. Bishop"_

" _Top of the morning, Miss McKinnon," Bishop chuckled in reply._

 _He then lapped his sandpaper tongue behind Hannah's ear in short, fine strokes, just as he knew she liked it._

" _My Hannah," he whispered in between licks, "My kind, strong, charming, darling Hannah."_

 _Meanwhile, breathing deeply, she basked in the heat from the window, and snuggled deeper into her husband's cozy orange coat. Bishop's tail shot happily upward at this, the tip occasionally flicking the back of his neck._

 _They were both late for work that morning._


	3. Chapter 2

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

Chapter 2

"Brace yourselves, children. The game's afoot!"

Sherrod Howe

August 23, 1994

Dear Sherrod,

I nearly choked on my coffee this morning when I heard the wireless. I couldn't leave Hannah's side until two hours after the broadcast, she was shaking so, and who could blame her? Death Eaters at the World Cup? The _Dark Mark_?! One thing's for sure: I don't have to have been there during the war to be terrified right now. This madness was supposed to be long over!

In any case, after comforting one another for a while, Hannah made it clear to me that she's going to Dumbledore, says if anyone will know what to do, it's him. This was after I had the gall to suggest we leave the country, mind you. I told her we could stay at my uncle's house in Westport, but she had none of it. Her exact words: "How 'bout you go fuck yourself, Sebastian? That snake-faced cunt killed Marlene, wiped us all out!" I was taken aback, to say the least. Hannah's got spirit, but she's never snapped at me like that before! So, I left her alone to pack her things for a while.

About an hour afterwards, once she cooled down, we talked a bit more. It all happened so fast, but we came to the conclusion that yes, bad things are on the horizon. Whether You-Know-Who is fixing a return or what, the Death Eaters are clearly still active, and still out there. I want nothing more than for Hannah to be safe, but she's the last McKinnon, so there is no way she can be completely safe, not while she remains here with Death Eaters still about. So, I have to agree with her. It is her right to fight, especially given what she's already been through. She really is a big girl now, and can take care of herself just fine.

Besides, this isn't out of nowhere by any means. She's been taking defense lessons on the side since her family died, and she always said she wishes she'd been old enough to join the fight last time. No matter how I look at it, I can't take this away from her.

What I cannot abide by is she wants _me_ to stay, and be the one to keep the homefires burning. That's simply no option, Sherrod. How am I supposed to stay out of harm's way when my wife is risking her life out there? I may not be a fighter, but I can't simply do nothing!

I thought about it, and ended up telling her about the letter from the States. If there are fights to be fought in our world, on two fronts as it were, than it's only fair that I take part in the crusade as well. The MUS and we Brits? We're in this together. The fight against the Secessionists is our fight as well, just as much as the fight against You-Know-Who. I'm not sure, and I don't want to make any decisions until I am, but I'm thinking about taking them up on their offer, signing up as a civilian. I may not be able to fight, but that doesn't mean I can't help.

Tell me, old friend, what do you think I should do?

Sincerely,

Sebastian

* * *

August 25th, 1994

Dear Sibs,

It is indeed a dark turn of events, and you are right, our place in it cannot be denied. After all, it was no Death Eater that killed Karkaroff, was it? He is but the next in a long line of casualties the civil war has wrought us. Not that I'd have it any other way, mind you. I've met the refugees at Hogwarts. I've met Arnold Hoffman, and his wife. This is a war we are on the right side of.

I can't say for sure what Dumbledore will have Hannah do, exactly. The Order has been disbanded for more than a decade, after all. I can confirm, however, that he shall have something in mind for her. It's not every day that he gives women away at their weddings, after all, even if their sister was in the Order. Already he's got Alister Moody on the case as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts, so I must figure he's planning something. Your wife will not be disappointed in seeking his direction, that much I can guarantee.

As for your role in that war, that may remain to be seen. I cannot tell you whether you should

stay or go. Nor can I guarantee your safety, as no one possibly could. This war in America, like all wizarding wars throughout the ages, is one without front lines. Everywhere is a battlefield. Even as a civilian, your life will be in very real danger should you decide to go. Do not think that your choice would be any safer than what Hannah has chosen. There will always be the risk that you may not come back.

Even if you do come back, I cannot say whether you will be the same man as you were when you left. War is an inherently traumatic experience for all involved. Don't believe what you've heard in books and radio plays, or that Muggle television claptrap. War is never glorious. It is never rewarding. It is never a fun time. Even when it is as just as this one, war, as they say, is hell.

You said it yourself, however; you've never seen war. You spent all of the war with Voldemort (and I do wish you'd use his real name, Bishop) safe in America. True, you don't need to have seen it to be afraid, but all the same; ruined lives, burning homes, slaughtered children, being forced to choose between your morals, or your orders...these are things you must be prepared to face on a daily basis. Although, as for the latter, at least I can rest assured you probably won't have to, not as a civilian doctor.

That all said, I'll wager you know most of this already. That's not why you wrote me. You wanted me to give you a reason to go, didn't you? Well, you don't need to beg for that. You are right, in that they could most certainly use you across the pond. A Healer may heal the body, but far too many go without aid to the mind, which is easily the most fragile, yet most vital, part of us. Only one Healer in ten is as suited as a psychiatrist to help in this way, and it would do my heart very good to know that one was out there, never accepting the war's lost causes, picking up the pieces of those left in the crossfire, and doing what he can to give them the tools they need to win their lives back, once all this comes to an end.

Above all else, however, just be prepared to be disappointed. The simple fact is that you are taking part in a conflict well beyond your ability to resolve, and far beyond your ability to truly make a difference. There will be little you'll truly be able to help with in the grand scheme of things, and when this war ends, it will sadly be no thanks to you, as an individual. If you can live with that, and be content with merely helping those who cross your path, then by all means, if you want to go, then go.

Whatever your part to play is in all this, however big or small, I know you'll excel at it. You've not steered yourself wrong before, eh?

Always your friend,

Sherrod Howe

* * *

 **TRANS-ATLANTIC SHIPPING AND TRANSPORT**

ADMIT ONE - COACH CLASS

Sebastian D. Bishop, MD

 **Cruise:** Nancy IV

 **Date:** September 12th, 1994 **Departing:** 5:00am SHARP

 **Boarding:** Port of Tilbury, Dock 42 ⅓

Tilbury, Essex RM18 7LA

 **Destination** : Lake Maurepas, Louisiana, USA

* * *

August 27th, 1994

Dear Diary,

It was a full day today, to say the least. I got Sherrod's response this morning. He was frank, and a bit harsh (he can be sometimes), but all in all, he was encouraging. Says I'm needed, which is more than enough for me. No sooner did I read Sherrod's letter than I had made my way to the AFD center in London, and submit the volunteer paperwork. I had already filled it out by now.

After a quick wand-weighing, and physical examination (this took most of the day), I was deemed fit for civilian service in America. My ship leaves two weeks from tomorrow, just in time for me to have handed in my two weeks notice at the hospital today. Once my background check goes through in a week's time, I'll be all set to go.

At first they were all mortified to hear me go, but when I told them the reason, I was immediately the talk of the hospital. Everyone in the lab, Healer Strout, most of the nurses, and even the Head Healer came and wished me good luck. They make me blush, but I must admit, I did like the attention just a bit, especially considering I don't leave for another two weeks!

Hannah says she's proud of me. She'll miss me, and I her, but she understands. I'll only be gone a year. After that, hopefully I'll be full enough on crusading, as it were, to be here for her. Just as long as I've done something, I can be content with playing the good husband. From her until the 12th, we're going to just try our best to get our affairs in order, spend as much time as we can with each other.

* * *

September 1st, 1994

Dear Diary,

Spent most of the past few days with mum and dad. Hannah came, of course, and mum was over the moon about it. I try to write them at least once a week, but you know me, sometimes I just plum forget, and Hannah's got to do it. Thankfully, they don't seem to mind. The dogs are behaving themselves, keeping Mum company, Dad's got his garden, and of course, they still got each other. As long as they keep their healths as they have, I don't reckon I have much to fear about them.

Not much to report on that, save for we had steak every night, which Dad cooked nice and rare, how I like. I miss his steaks, me. I guess I still will, for a while at least.

* * *

September 7th, 1994

Dear Diary,

It was a full day on all fronts yesterday, being my last birthday home for a year. Hannah held an open house party for me from dawn till dusk, and it was quite a time, considering how unremarkable an age 43 is (but I digress). Everyone at work who could get the day off, came. They brought food, presents, their kids, drinks; it was...quite overwhelming, if I'm being honest. I only knew about a dozen of the people there, were friends with only a handful, and I spent most of the morning and half the afternoon sat in one chair, opening gifts as I was recieving them. Most were practical gifts, thankfully, such as a Wizard's Chess set, a fine selection of new books, a new backpack and toothbrush, a sneakoscope, warm robes, things like that.

Other gifts...were not so welcome. Put it like this: Dennis from the Magical Bugs ward got me a three-foot telescope, and Hannah's friend, Ms. Westscott, brought a monkey sculpture made entirely of marshmallow and peanut butter. She made it herself.

All in all, fun times were had, I'll say. The food was mostly good, the cake Hannah picked out was superb (chocolate with creme frosting between the layers, with a layer of marzipan on top), and to top it all off, she had her boss make us enough of her new potion to last us the rest of the week. Needless to say, Jackie's gift was my favorite.

* * *

September 9th, 1994

Dear Diary,

I'm all packed, and all the last bits of paperwork has been gotten over with, so we intend to spend all of today and tomorrow just with each other, mostly in bed. I've fixed us some wine (some potion) and prepared us some snacks, while Hannah's in the other room preparing some music. I pulled a hip muscle quite badly last night, so I suspect we'll not be able to go quite as hard as we've been going. However, that doesn't mean Hannah and I can't have our fun while we still can. Truth be told, I don't think I've ever gotten it this much all at once, not in my life!

I know it can't just be the potion, because right now, not having taken it yet, I feel like we did when we first started going out. I figure this must all be a good sign, as I haven't felt this good about anything in a long time. I'm excited, eager, giddy even! I'm trying not to get my hopes up, given what Sherrod said, but I don't think I can help it. Hannah and I are like kids again, and for once in my life, I'm actually going to make a difference out there!

* * *

 _"Music's all set!" Hannah called out, "You ready, angel? I want us to have our doses at the same time, so don't keep me waiting."_

 _"Right, right, darling!" Bishop replied, setting his diary and pencil down on the table._

 _Wearing nothing but a purple bathrobe, he then took up the platter of food and wine, and carried it with a flourish back to the bedroom. Hannah was laying under the comforter (her only covering), and had her own flask in hand, her wand in the other. With a swish and a flick, she relieved her husband of the silver tray, and took the liberty of setting it down on the bedside dresser, which had already been cleared off. With another flick towards the phonograph, the vinyl record began to spin; "Classical Tunes to Love By, Volume I"._

 _She then set her wand aside, and beckoned Bishop into bed with her finger. After slowly untying his robe, and letting it fall to the floor, he took the two wine glasses off the tray into one hand, and a bottle of Merlot and his potion flask with the other._

 _He poured a half glass each for them, and true to form, they spiked their glasses with the potion. After a brief toast and a sip (which slowly grew into an enthusiastic gulp for Hannah), Bishop took Hannah very gently by the back of her neck, and pulled her in for a kiss. Before they knew it, they had to break it off to breath, after which Bishop proceeded to gulp down his own wine as well, setting the glass back down on the tray afterward._

" _Attaboy," Hannah giggled, "We'll make a drinker out of this Irishman yet!"_

 _Bishop laughed, unable to think of a clever retort._

" _I'm proud of you, you know," she said, wrapping an arm around his waist, "You're gonna do great, chuck. I know it."_

" _Thanks, dove. It means a lot to hear you say that."_

" _I mean it. You've got a damn big heart in this chest. Damn big balls, too."_

 _Bishop snorted a laugh._

" _Really!" Hannah insisted, "You're going to war, Sibs. You're going to join a fight that's not yours just to help strangers. That's not nothing!"_

" _I'm a doctor, hun," replied Bishop, "Helping strangers is what I do. I mean, somebody's got to, eh? And you're the one going to war, here, not me. I'm just off to lend a hand to the ones who're_ actually _doing the fighting."_

" _Sebastian, honey, you're risking your life to help fight bad guys. You're not fooling anybody."_

 _Not thinking, the two collapsed backwards into their pillows, and clutched onto each other, as if for dear life. Hannah's hands swam in the soft, silky fur of Sebastian's back, and he in turn shoved his wet, pink nose into her blond curls, drinking in the smell like water on a hot day. Both their hands and mouths were everywhere, their legs were tangled together, writhing under the covers, as the room started to reverberate with mews, gasps, panting, and purring, all to the soft music of Mozart's_ Duettino Sull'aria.

 _If they had anything else to say to each other then, they wouldn't get a chance to say it until much later that afternoon, at which point they dove straight for the now-cold food, only just now noticing their hunger._


	4. Chapter 3

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

"As a child, and especially as an adolescent, I used to often wonder if I was truly male. I abhor violence, and I've never cared one wit about sex, yet those seem to be most mens' very favorite things!"

-Sherrod Howe

* * *

September 12th, 1994

Sebastian,

Enjoy your last homemade meal for some time. Love you so much. I know you'll knock 'em dead!

Hugs and cuddles,

Hannah

* * *

 _Bishop smiled as he reread her note, which still had her scent. Lounging in his hotel bed, he laid out his dinner on the sheets beside him. She'd packed all his favorites: roast beef, tomato, and marmalade, on honey wheat bread, with macaroni salad, Jalapeno crisps, and a cherry cauldron cake for dessert. Positively famished from the day's orientation, he made very short work of it._

 _Afterwards, he took a long, hot shower, dried himself with a wave of his wand, and quickly changed into his bathrobe (for obvious reasons, he preferred to sleep in the nude). Then, he took a seat at the corner desk, lit a few candlesticks, and stretched out a length of parchment. He promised Hannah he'd waste no time in writing her his first letter once he'd settled in._

* * *

Dear Hannah,

Thanks again for lunch, darling! I didn't get a chance to eat it until later in the evening, when I was checked into the hotel for the night, but even so, it was all delicious! Already, I'm really missing you, but thankfully, I do not have any regrets yet. I hope you can say the same, and I hope Dumbledore has found something to keep you as busy. Lord knows I've been plenty busy today! It was all quite informative; I learned a lot about the war that they don't tell you in _the Prophet_ or the wireless, or if they do, they don't stress it very well.

Anyhow, as you saw, the boat submerged into the river at 5am sharp, and just a mere hour later, when we surfaced, we were at Lake Maurepas, just Northeast of the capital. Once we'd successfully departed, I was separated into a much smaller group of other enlisted civilians by some AFD blokes. After taking their sweet time in getting there, a bus came and made up for it, by swiftly whisking us away to New Orleans. Have you ever ridden the Knight Bus before? It wasn't quite as fast as that, but very close. We were at the capitol's civilian entrance in just under ten minutes. Reckon it would have taken us an hour in Muggle traffic!

In any case, this bus took us to a fairly seedy part of town. Though I'm not sure which part (perhaps I'll look it up later), I could see and smell that it was on the river. There were around three dozen of us, and we all were led down this thin alleyway to a seafood restaurant, _Captain Patty's Steak and Shrimp_. Ten at a time, were directed inside the restaurant. It was a mess, with only a handful of patrons seated at the rather dirty bar, a faint scent of ammonia overtaking the dining room, and the hostess (Patty, I presume) was quite harsh and exasperated at our coming. However, from what I could see, the food did look good.

Our respective guides, in turn, took us to a large corner booth. My group went in first, and I happened to sneak a peek at the menu before what came next. The prices were good, and the selection looked fairly straightforward, ten menu items with various combinations of seafood, steak, and sides. Before we'd all received a menu, however, our host said we were all going to have the Number 13. A clever code, I say, seeing as like I said, there were only ten items on the menu.

Nodding, and giving us a knowing look, she took us in a line through the kitchen, and then to the

large freezer in the back. I didn't see how he did it, but our guide did something to the back wall of the freezer with his wand, causing the floor to sink downward, along with the ceiling, like an elevator. When we stopped, we were inside the lobby of the MUS capitol building.

It was quite a sight, Hannah! Imagine it: a huge, cavernous hall of marble, lit by a collection of floating, ornate chandeliers, glowing with sparkles, the walls adorned with paintings from every era of US history; the landing at Plymouth Rock, the First Magical Continental Congress meeting in New Orleans, the Indian Wars, the victory over Grindelwald! And there were statutes as well, beside the Floo Network fireplaces, which lined the walls, much like they do back at the Ministry. Don't ask me who they were statues of, however. You'll have to pardon my ignorance on that front, ha ha!

Anyhow, at the opposite end of the room, an archway led to a hall of elevators, one of which we were all able to pack into, to be led to the conference hall.

(forgive me another tangent, but I still don't understand why the Ministry can't be bothered to just make those elevators larger on the inside. I mean, are we wizards or not?!)

This, finally, brings us to our orientation, made special for us since we were all of us foreign nationals. Some colonel or other did most of the talking, occasionally allowing some experts to give their input.

I realize, of course, that I've told you much about Muggle American history, from what I learned back in UCLA, but this was my first major education in Wizarding American history, and believe you me, it was quite extensive. After all, they did want us all prepared as to what we'd signed up for. Just to give you an idea of what I'm up against over here, I'll give you the rundown of all the pertinent things I've retained from their lecture:

First, the principal difference between Muggle America and wizarding America, apart from the capital: unlike the Muggles' original thirteen colonies, the wizarding counterpart governments were always independent from Great Britain; "Free States", they were called. As a result, the MUS government was founded many years after the US government was.

However, just like the Muggles, wizard settlers did not get along with the local Natives (at least not the British ones, but I'll get to that in a moment). During the Muggle French-and-Indian War, the British wizarding states managed to form an alliance with the Iroquois, along with their Muggle counterparts, and formerly obtained control of the continent from both the Indians and the French. Uncontested, the states continued growing, much to the sorrow of the Natives.

French wizarding folk, on the other hand, had a fairly cordial relationship with the Indians, and even settled the French Louisiana territory long before Muggles ever could. As such, they established a lot of infrastructure there, with trade agreements, land treaties, and even some representation in the central French government in New Orleans.

It wasn't perfect, of course. There were plenty of disagreements, and lives lost from those disagreements, but since the French weren't too keen on actually establishing proper settlements in the territory itself, and because even when they did, they were typically more open to living under Native laws, their relationship was mostly a harmonious one.

This all changed, however, in 1803, when the Muggle President at the time, Thomas Jefferson, bought the Louisiana Territory from the Muggle Emperor of France, Napoleon Bonaparte, thus doubling the size of the Union. This wasn't quite as impactful on the wizarding government of New Orleans as it must have been with the Muggles, mind you. Much like the wizarding Free States, even though there were plenty of economic ties between New Orleans and France, New Orleans was always more or less independent as far as wizards were concerned. The states, however, were still growing, and spreading, within the borders which Muggles continued to establish. With the Louisiana Purchase, these Free State governments saw an opportunity.

After about a year of planning, drafting, and debating, the First Magical Continental Congress was held in New Orleans, a constitution was drafted (modeled after the Muggle Constitution), and after a swift election, the Magical United States of America was founded, with the Magical Congress at the helm.

From here, my dear, I'm afraid it all went tits up for the Indians.

It was a quite depressing part of the lecture, with plenty of Native Americans from all over telling us about how deals were broken, small wars were sparked, all centered around the new Magical Congress not continuing its predecessor's legacy of relative friendship with the Natives, though promises were made that they would. Settlements were set up where there were promised to be none, Indians attacked the settlers in retaliation, and the settlers fought back, because what else could they do? They were told they can live somewhere and were attacked for moving there. It's not like they were told "Alright lads, watch yourselves, we're breaking a hell of a lot of treaties by letting you all live here". Their own representatives killed them just as much as the Indians did, if you ask me. And honestly, how familiar does all this sound to what the Ministry has done with the giants and dwarves in the past? I digress.

As the years went on, the "Indian problem" as it was later known, began to color all of MUS political discourse. The issue of Native American rights is the largest defining characteristic of all three political parties. I know you must be getting a bit bored of the history lesson by now, but these parties are extremely consequential to how the Secessionists came about, so do bear with me, darling. I'll try to wrap this up as best I can.

Until recently, there were two parties in the US, the Libertarian party and the Progressive party.

Libertarians are conservative, and believe in restricted rights for Native Americans, on grounds of their culture being incompatible with a safe, secretive wizarding world. However, they also advocate for "local rights", as in the right for local governments to decide for themselves what kind of rights to afford Native Americans. To that end, communities with large Libertarian representation, tended to have worse treatment of Indians than those represented by the other parties. It was the predominantly Libertarian states which later ended up seceding, and almost all of the Secessionist movement was comprised of Libertarians.

The second party, the Progressives, are more liberal, and are rather split on Native American rights. Some want equal rights, some want no rights, and some only want second-class rights, but all of them believe in having a federal consensus, meaning they don't want just every town or state to get to decide what kind of rights Indians get to have. Whether they're pro-Indian or anti-Indian, they want the law to be the same everywhere. Incidentally, they happened to catch my attention after Hogwarts, because they fund a series of programs which encourage the wizarding world to be more open to the Muggle world, albeit in just one direction, with wizards getting to know the Muggle world more. They're still pro-Statute of Secrecy, but like I always say, change comes slowly, and we've got to make allies where we can.

Now the third major party in America, the Integrationists, are also the newest, having been founded in the 50's, and been steadily gaining traction since then. They're the staunchly pro-Indian party, believing in equal rights for all Natives, and reparations to be given to them to make amends for the sins of the past. This is the party current President Timothy Shensuken is a part of.

Thanks in part to Shensuken's activism over the years, and a heavy amount of support from both his base and the international community, he was able to sign NACRRA (the Native American Civil Rights and Reparations Act) into law two years ago, despite the growing Secessionist movement, and several terrorist attacks and riots breaking out against supporters of the bill, which had been going on for some years before this war actually started.

And well overdue, it was, Hannah. I had no clue just how bad a lot Indians have over here! Before NACRRA, segregation between the two races was ubiquitous throughout Libertarian communities, as well as severely restricted mobility between states, and much lower quality public education, which was by design, mind you! In the very worst states and towns, Native families were only allowed to have one child before they had to report to be sterilized. In those states, it was not even allowed for Natives to marry those of a different race, receive any sort of secondary education, or even leave their reservations. Now, all of those practices are illegal, on a federal level.

The day Shensuken signed the law, however, states sympathetic to the Secessionist movement began making good on their threats, and taking on the label of "Free States", like the original colonials had. Small skirmishes and riots continued to break out, mass desertions ensued as a result of divided loyalties in the army, and despite Shensuken's several attempts at diplomacy, the months of chaos eventually came to a head on the night of July 4th, 1992, when those three towns in North Dakota were attacked and decimated by the 42nd Regiment of the "Free State of North Dakota". They call this event, "The Dakota Incident".

That very next morning, Magical Congress unanimously voted to declare war on these Free States, which comprised of all the states between Minnesota and Washington state, sandwiched, if you will, between the Pacific coast states, and the East. To this day, those states remain mostly under Secessionist control.

However, after the Virgil Massacre in South Dakota, their respective governments opted to join together, rather than fight the Union as several disparate states. I suspect that's why we've heard so little about them across the pond. The Union doesn't exactly want to advertise that the Secessionists have redrawn the map, eh? If they outright referred to them as anything like "nations", that'd give them some kind of legitimacy.

In any case, the Progressives of those states went on to form a new party, the Republicans, and last autumn, this new party successfully lobbied to dissolve the Free States, in favor of two "republics" (hence the name): the Republic of Great Plains, and the Republic of Rocky Mountains and the Pueblo (everyone just calls them 'Great Plains' and 'Rocky Mountains', respectively).

They also have a confederate government in Denver, Colorado, and collectively, the two factions call themselves the "Confederacy of Denver" (not the most creative name, but what can you do, eh?) I assume the war will end when Denver itself surrenders, but it is these two factions which truly characterize the two different campaigns which are being waged. The war in the Pacific Front is being fought specifically against Rocky Mountains, while the war in the Eastern Front is being fought against Great Plains. As for me, I've been assigned to a base on the Pacific Front; Kelso, California to be exact, though I don't know specifically where that is.

After this appointment, I and several others were divided from our group into a much smaller conference hall, where we were given even _more_ orientation specifically on the Pacific Campaign. It'd all be incredibly fascinating if I wasn't so exhausted and famished by then.

Thankfully, this section didn't take nearly as long. It was just an overview of the essentials; how to judge a Rockie uniform from a Union one (long story short, Rockies are the blokes in white, Union blokes wear blue), military time and code, typical schedules while on base, rights we have as civilian worker, things like that. Most interesting of all, we were given a lengthy lecture on "the enemy", the commander of the RRMP Army: General Leopold "the Killer" Yablonski.

They made quite a show of presenting his photo in the slideshow, for as much as they want us to hate the man (and rightly so, if what they say is true). Fascinatingly enough, Yablonski's still a kid! To look at him, I'd have guessed him to be no older than seventeen. Turns out he's twenty-six, so he's as young as you, dear! Can you imagine? Being a four-star general at your age? Sure enough, he really was a child prodigy. He got perfect scores on every one of his NEWTs, became an Auror straight out of high school, earned his first commission at 18, became head of the MUS Investigation Department at 21, was promoted to lieutenant general when the war began, and when Rocky Mountains was founded, the Secessionist president made him commander of the Pacific Campaign. Unfortunately for Madam President, however, she seems to be getting more than she bargained for with him.

Don't know how much of this is true and how much is propaganda, but they say Yablonski possesses more power in Rocky Mountains than the governor does. It was Yablonski who had the labor camps built in Montana, his forces who patrol the streets, his friends in the Rocky Mountain legislature. They hinted at the fact that the actual governor of Salt Lake City (Rocky Mountain's capital), is little more than a figurehead, compared to Yablonski, though I'm not so sure. I'll have to wait and see. Part of me suspects that they just mean to gives us a boogeyman to hate, but on the other hand, they really don't need to give us a reason that I can see, beyond the basic facts about him.

You see, one thing is beyond dispute: this Yablonski is a villain, a sociopath. They called him "the Killer" back in the Aurors because he quickly became famous for never taking a dark wizard alive. He'd always find a way to kill them, and always he'd find a way to make it look justified. Even more unsettling, every time he'd kill someone, he'd write their names down in a little black notebook.

Since the war began, he's only gotten worse. Many of his labor camps in Montana have been liberated recently, and the conditions he puts them in are despicable. They work in factories and labs without the aid of magic, forced to keep going at wand point if they get injured, with concrete floors to sleep on, soiled clothes, barely enough food to survive, Dementors patrolling the barbed wire fences. Not to mention the fact that he runs the Rocky Mountains and his army like a police state. Under Yablonski, nearly every offense is a capital one, and in his spare time, he personally carries out many of the executions himself, presumably so he can add more names to his book.

The most disturbing thing about him, however, is his appearance. I've already mentioned that he's only your age, but it's more than that. Yablonski...is an alright-looking chap. In the photo they showed us, he's got wide eyes, an easy smile, a full face on a thin, fit body, with well-kept hair. He looks like a hopeful, determined young man, albeit one clad in medals. In fact, if I hadn't already seen the part of the slideshow which featured the labor camps and executions, I'd call this a very trustworthy face. As it is, it couldn't be more unsettling. God save the brave souls who must live with that vile person as their leader.

Well, that's essentially all there is to it, near as I can tell. There was more, but after literally 18 hours of sitting and listening to people talk, with nothing but this morning's breakfast to sustain me, I've just about had it. I'm staying the night in this hotel in the city, and in the morning, I'm being sent via portkey to Kelso where I'm to be assigned my first duties. Of course, I'm very eager to get started, if a bit anxious. For now, all I can do is relax in bed, and get a good night's rest with a bellyful of your delicious dinner!

I must admit, it's hard being out here, all by myself. After all these years, I'd gotten quite used to having you in my life, darling. Even when we don't talk, just having you always there has been a part of my life for so long, it's hard to imagine it without you. Now, I'm all alone again, and the feeling is...bizarre to say the least. It will take some getting used to, but it does comfort me knowing you'll still be there, fighting your own battles, taking time to read your old husband's overlong letters.

I love you, darling, and tonight, when I say my bedtime prayers, I'll be thinking of you.

Always yours,

Sebastian

* * *

September 14, 1994

Dear Sebastian,

I was surprised to get your letter so fast, until I realized that, of course they wouldn't send an owl to deliver something all the way from America (duhh!). I'm so glad to be hearing from you already. I miss you too, and I know I've already said it a thousand times, but I'll say it again: I'm proud of you, chuck. You're one cool bloke, and I love you with all my heart.

Haha, don't worry about how long the letter is. I'm glad you sent me the essentials. Wouldn't want to be kept in the dark, you know. It'd only be boring if my own husband weren't out caught in the middle of it!

I had no clue Natives had it that bad either, angel. These bloody Secessionists are going through all this trouble just to have the "right" to treat them like that? What bastards! Good thing the Yanks snagged you when they had the chance. I reckon they've just about had it now that you're on the case. Ha ha, only teasing of course. I can't wait to hear how much you're gonna help those people, and that's a fact.

Sounds like this General Yablonski is a son of a bitch. Hope they catch him!

Aww, it's sweet of you to say, dear. I count on you too! I can't help much with feeling lonely, but take another look in the envelope, if you haven't already. I sent you a few snapshots to remember me by. Maybe they'll keep you a little company. Just imagine I'm in your bunk right along with you, stroking your back how you like, whispering sweet sillies in your ear, losing myself in you…

Enjoy, sweetie,

Your Hannah

* * *

September 16, 1994

Dear Diary,

Only my second day here, and already I may be a laughing stock. Hannah sent me back a reply to my letter today, at lunch, in the mess hall. As soon as I opened it, however, I had a grave potty emergency, and had to rush to the toilet. Big mistake.

As it turns out, Hannah sent me some naughty photos of herself with the letter, and the blokes who're sitting next to me saw them, all spread out beside my food. Luckily for me, they didn't draw attention to us, but not so luckily for me, they did voice how ironic it is that, quote "A pussy is getting that much pussy!" Why yes, gentlemen, I am in fact a cat-man, and "pussy" is indeed slang for vagina. Brilliant observation. Though at least it's a step-up from being pelted with balls of yarn, like back at Hogwarts (knock on wood).

Note to self: don't eat the chili.

To make matters worse, my duties, it seems, have not changed from what they were at St. Mungos. They say they'll keep me posted when someone needs therapy, but in the meantime, I'm making potions again. Different lab, same bullshit.

At least I have the President's envelope to keep me challenged. I'm thinking on giving it another look tonight, after dinner. I can thankfully be assured that Mrs. Ranken's cooking will be better than they've got here. Not terrible, these mess rations, just bland enough to make me thankful that Hannah's lunch won't be my last home cooked meal in a year, after all.

* * *

EXECUTIVE OFFICE OF THE MAGICAL CONGRESS OF AMERICA  
NEW ORLEANS, LA 70043

Monday, September 12, 1994

Sebastian D. Bishop, MD

100 Piute Mountain Road

Kelso, California

Dear Dr. Bishop,

Thank-you for agreeing to this assignment. We have too few experts in psychology working on this case, and it's not often we have a real, licensed psychiatrist volunteering to assist in the war effort.

You sir, are one of a handpicked few that have been selected to advise the president on the psychological state of General Leopold Yablonski, that we at the Executive Office may properly construct a profile of him, and in doing so, be better equipped to combat him.

In our dealings, you will find enclosed a copy of an entry in Yablonski's diary, confiscated in a recent search of his old office here at the Capitol. Read it, study it, and discern what you can. Detail your findings on parchment, and send your notes to us once you're finished, via the instructions Colonel Klein gave to you along with this envelope. We will then send you another envelope in care of Ft. Kelso, where the process will repeat. Remember, you are not the only one studying these documents, just one of a few.

We'll keep in touch. Thank you again, Dr. Bishop, for your service. May God bless you, and may God bless the Magical United States of America.

Sincerely,

Timothy X Shensuken

President of the Magical United States

* * *

 _Bishop read and reread the letter with great enthusiasm, by the light of a single candle. Now that he was all settled into his new quarters at the Ranken family's place, he finally got around to opening the package. It was strange, needless to say, knowing that he couldn't tell anyone, not even his own wife. Not that he minded, of course. After the rotten day he'd had, a study in psychology this important to the war effort was more than welcome. If he wasn't seeing patients, at least not yet, then at least he could still put his training to use in other ways._

 _Then, just as Bishop reached back into the manilla envelope, he heard a hissing out of the corner of his ear, and the candle flickered. His ears and eyes perked up in startlement, then relaxed again._

 _"Psst!"_

 _That time, the hissing was unmistakably someone whispering! Bishop turned back to the door, and scanned the room behind him, but found nothing._

 _"Psst, Sibs! Over here!"_

 _It was coming from...his desk? Just as he turned to face it again, the candle flickered again, and turned a bright green, drawing his attention. There, at the tip of the candle, the shape of the flame had taken the form of a familiar face._

 _"Sherrod?!"_

 _"At your service, sir," he replied proudly, bowing over the candle, his attention suddenly caught by the open letter still on the desk._

 _"Well, well, well, doctor, what have we hear? Is that President Shensuken's signature?"_

 _Bishop snatched it from it's place, and shoved it back in the folder, though he knew the damage must be done, for how fast Sherrod could read._

 _"What are you doing here?! And_ how _in God's name are you doing that?"_

 _"You'd be surprised what a man can discover when he gets as easily bored as I. Turns out, you really can connect a candle to the Floo Network! Enough about me, though, what's this about a study?"_

 _"I-I can't say! It's top secret."_

 _"Not anymore. You just let me read it, old boy."_

" _I did not let — how the bloody hell did you even —?"_

" _Look, Sebastian, relax. It's me, remember? I already knew they were studying Yablonski. In fact, I took it for granted. Why wouldn't they want to know their target as well as they could? I just checked in with you, since I inferred a psychiatrist would be a prime candidate for Congressional poaching if they were forming a psychological profile, and it seems I was correct. Couldn't have guessed they have data like this, however."_

" _Speaking of which, you could have very well given me away to the family I'm staying with just now!"_

" _Sibs, think about it logically. I'm your friend. I've known you for almost ten years now. Don't you think I'd know full well that if you were doing something clandestine, you'd be doing it by yourself, with the door locked? And if you weren't, then the worst I'd be doing is giving you and your hosts a bit of a fright?"_

 _Bishop shook his head, laughing a little. How the hell did he do that?_

" _Well, now you know, I suppose," said Bishop, rubbing his forehead, "So now what?"_

" _Now, I'd like to ask you for a bit of a favor."_

" _Sherrod—!"_

" _Just a little feedback every now and again as to what this Yablonski is about. I can check in with you at this hour, once a month, and you can just tell me what you're telling the President."_

" _Goddamnit Sherrod Howe, you are not a detective anymore. This is not your business!"_

" _It is potentially Adele's business. That makes it my business by proxy, since we're each other's responsibility."_

" _That bloody woman," Bishop muttered, "This again? What on earth does Yablonski have to do with Kinney, or the Cambridges, or that prophecy of yours?"_

" _The last two, nothing, but it may have very, very much to do with Kinney."_

" _How?"_

" _Kinney was hired by Secessionists, if you'll recall, and yet he left no paper trail, no evidence that could have led back to anyone in particular. Not many people in the confederacy have the kind of power, not to cover their tracks so well that none of us could have found a clue. As far as the attack on the_ Daily Prophet _, and Karkaroff's deaths are concerned, Yablonski is our prime suspect in who exactly put Kinney up to it. This is our best lead, Sibs! I know you have your own life to live, your own battles to fight, all that, but you don't have to join us to help us."_

 _Bishop bit his lip, "I could get in a lot of trouble."_

 _Sherrod rolled his eyes, "Bloody hell, and you call yourself a Slytherin? They're not going to know, I guarantee it. I won't reveal your identity to anyone."_

" _Professor Irene?"_

" _No, not even Adele. Not Dumbledore, not your wife, not anyone."_

 _Bishop sighed again, and took his seat back, hunched over the letter._

" _It wouldn't take any more effort on your part than it would otherwise," Sherrod insisted, "and you'd be helping not only a friend, but a lot of innocent people."_

 _Bishop groaned. That wasn't fair. He was right, but still not fair._

" _Fine," Bishop resigned, "I'll keep you posted, but you better not start an international incident on my account."_

" _Wouldn't dream of it," Sherrod laughed, giving a trusting wink._

 _With that, the flame shrunk back down, and returned to it's normal orange glow._

 _Exhausted, Bishop hid the envelope and letter under his matress, then stripped down to his underpants, and crawled under the covers. He felt ants crawling under his skin as he agonized over what he'd just agreed to. Not to mention, it was only last night Bishop had to start wearing underpants to bed, after sleeping in the buff for as long as he'd been married. Even now it felt awkward, causing him toss and turn all the more restlessly._

" _God save me," Bishop whispered, holding one of his pillows in a vice grip, "God...save me…"_

* * *

General Leopold Yablonski is property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	5. Chapter 4

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

"They say love is the most powerful force on this earth, both in magic and the mundane. To hear Albus talk, you'd think Voldemort would never have gone on to do what he did, if he'd only received more hugs as a child. Myself personally, I see it as a bit of a distraction at best, and outright selfish at worst. Not that I'm one to talk. I love my students more than life itself. I just don't know whether that is a personal strength, or a weakness."

-Sherrod Howe

September 15, 1994

Dear Hannah,

First of all, thank you kindly for the photos. You're so sweet for thinking of me! I would return the favor, but privacy and spare cameras are hard to come by around here, ha ha!

I'm all settled in now. A local family with a big farm house, the Rankens, volunteered to accept new recruits, and I was the first to get here. They're good people, very accepting despite my appearance, and their kids are a lot of fun (they have six!). Mrs. Ranken also happens to be a rather good cook, which is a pleasant surprise given we both expected me to be eating military cafeteria food for the next year, eh?

The environs aren't too bad either. I daresay it's the greenest place this close to the Mojave; trees, grass, birds, all rather idyllic, and quiet in the middle of nowhere. This is by design, of course. Turns out Kelso is an all-wizard town (they're more common here in the states) near Bakersfield. Tiny place, just a few hundred souls, a school, a bar, a general store, a diner, and a library. Kids even have to drive to Bakersfield just to go to high school. It's primary claim to fame, truth be told, is that it houses Ft. Kelso, home of the 12th Mounted Infantry Brigade, and the largest refugee camp in the Pacific Front. Up till this morning, my job here was mainly comprised of exactly what I was doing back in St. Mungo's, making Draughts of Peace, Elixirs of Euphoria; more potion duty, much to my unpleasant surprise.

Today, however, that changed, in what turned out to be quite a spectacle. It was just after lunch, and I was leaving the mess hall, headed up the road to the hospital building, when I saw a pair of soldiers carrying a man in irons, in the opposite direction. The poor boy looked to be no older than eighteen, with a ragged, bloody uniform, and eyes that looked as though they'd not been shut for days. In their wake, was a growing crowd of onlookers, some soldiers, some civilians, but mostly refugees. Most looked simply confused, but some were actually booing this man. Curious, and in no hurry to get back to that drab old lab, I followed the crowd to the HQ building, in the same square as mess hall.

Waiting at the door was a company of around a half dozen men or so, all officers. At their head was a taciturn fellow, the Major if I recall correctly, though his name escapes me right now. In any case, as it happened, the man in irons had just this morning been caught trying to flee into the desert, hexxed three men in the attempt before he was caught. What I was witnessing was his court martial, such as it was. They were trying to be swift about it, but the poor bastard wouldn't shut up. He was sobbing as loud as I've ever heard any man do so, he was shivering on his knees, wouldn't keep quiet about wanting his parents.

"I want my parents, please call my parents! Please, please!" he said, over and over and over.

This clued me in that something was very wrong. Just as the Major had his wand out, and was ready to kill the man, it hit me. I rushed through the crowd, screaming as loud as I could, "Wait! Wait!" and hurried to the fellow's side. I checked his eyes, how his pupils reacted to light from my wand, his pulse, how well he responded to me trying to talk to him, all while the Major was barking orders to remove me, that this was a trial, etc. etc. I shouted at him what was clear to me from looking at this boy: he was going through a psychotic breakdown, and a panic attack. He needed a hospital, immediately.

The Major looked at me incredulously, and asked me "What the hell are you, anyway?" and I responded, "A psychiatrist." It may seem witty, but truthfully, in all the excitement, I simply didn't catch what he actually meant.

In any case, since he hadn't handed down the verdict yet, I was able to speak in the boy's defense. I listed off all his symptoms; hyperventilation, high pulse, and as we all tried to speak to him, it was evident that he was completely removed from reality at the time. I asked him directly if he could hear us, and...I'm not sure, but I think I must resemble his a pet cat of his, because he kept calling me "Chico" and a "good kitty".

"Good kitty, Chico! Please, don't tell Mama, please? Please, I'll be good! I won't do it again! I'll fight, I'll fight!"

I asked them just how many fights the lad has been in. They said four, this month! Four?! It's only the 15th, and he's already been in four battles? I later found out that he's been enlisted since the war began, so I can't imagine how long this has been going on! They all said he insisted he was fine, but fuck off, them! Someone had to've noticed this before now, surely? Well, evidently someone did, because before long, the soldiers in the crowd were on my side. Heard one of them said he'd been "acting funny" for months now.

Long story short, he was acquitted, and admitted to hospital. Still, Major here had the gall to ask me when he'll be fit to fight again. "Four, five days?" Days?! The man'll be lucky if he can get out of bed in a week, much less fight! After a rather heated exchange where he called me something in a language I didn't recognize (though I have to assume it was unflattering, whatever it was), I finally settled on an answer he could at least be satisfied with. Two weeks in bed, plus another two weeks out of combat, all with regular therapy sessions and visitors. After that, I reckon he'll be alright as long as he keeps to his prescriptions, and doesn't get sent out to battle twice a week anymore.

This...brings me to some lighter news. Much more exciting too!

By the time I was finished up at hospital, and had gotten poor Lance all squared away (Lance is his name), I got a summons from the Brigadier General, Helena Green. They didn't say what it was about, so I was quite worried on the walk back down to Headquarters. I thought I'd gotten myself into some serious trouble, somehow.

Once I'd arrived at the office, I asked for directions to the Brigadier General's office, but was declined. They just shrugged and told me to follow the signs. Bloody Americans, eh? They send you somewhere, and give you no help whatever in getting there. In any case, it turned out to not be that hard to find. It was the only room on the third floor. What surprised me most, however, was, as it happens, Brigadier General Green is a dwarf. Not a human with dwarfism mind you, but an actual dwarf! It was no small inspiration, I'll admit, knowing that the person in charge wasn't human. Don't know why, but I suppose it made me feel more looked after, though she herself did not give that impression to me.

Sidenote: as it happens, female dwarves don't actually have beards. From the look of her, they just have long sideburns. I suppose you learn something knew everyday!

Anyhow, she had me sit down, and told me she was impressed by me, in the most stern way she could. Called it "the mess I made". Reminds me of Watkins' old lieutenant from his time at St. Mungos, you remember? The hard-ass who kept calling him "shrimp"? I guess that's just what power does to some people, but damned if I know. Not as though anyone at the Ministry ever gave us the time of day.

Back to the story: Brigadier General Green did say that she was proud of me for saving Lance's life, that he was a good boy and it never dawned on her that he would crack like this. I suppose he always told his lieutenant that he was fine, so they didn't think much of it. I made sure to give her a piece of my mind, told her what I told the Major back in the yard, and I think she heeded my words. She told me she'll have all the rotations double checked, to avoid an incident like this from happening again.

While I was at it, I asked after just how much free time the soldiers had, and she said practically none. With the refugee camp to look after, and all this land to cover there's plenty for everyone to do. I insisted, however, that she open up some time for the men to socialize, that historically (in Muggle wars at least), veterans did best when they were given time to express themselves, and relate to their fellow soldiers, rather than have nonstop combat, followed by a swift whisking away back to civilization. Much to my surprise, she listened! Now that's not something I'm used to. Even Healer Strout back at the hospital has an argument in store for me every time I try something new in the ward, but Brigadier General? I just told her my suggestions, and she said "done". Imagine that!

Then, she dropped a bomb on me, in the most pleasant way. At the end of our discussion, she asked if I would spare some time apart from my normal duties to see other patients besides Lance? Soldiers, refugees, things like that?

Well Hannah, I lit up like a Christmas tree! Wanting to look professional, however, I suppressed my amazement as much as I could, and told her of course I would. With that, she gave me permission to accept appointments, and allotted me a new office at the base medical center.

This is it, Hannah! This is what I came here for! Finally, I'll be able to meet with patients head-on, give them someone to talk to, someone to trust and help them! I'm so excited, I confess it's hard for me to keep my hands steady enough to write, so I think I'll give it a rest for now. I've told you most everything there is to say, and it looks like I have a lot of work to do from now on. Expect my letter not quite as soon as this one came, but as soon as I can.

All my love,

Sebastian

* * *

September 16, 1994

Dear Kim,

i'm on my meds now. Doc says i can receive visitors in just a couple days, but first they got to keep me under guard, in case i snap again. Sorry to scare everyone like that. i just had it, after that last skirmish. Can't remember the last time i slept a full night. Wasn't thinking. All these nightmares, nonstop action, all this blood and guts bullcrap finally just got me. i was so scared, i thought i was gonna die any second. i was seeing shit, couldn't keep still, couldn't get no air, no matter how hard i was breathing, felt like i was dying already.

i'm okay now, though. That new guy with the cat's head butted in before Rumi could sentence me. Think they woulda strung me up or worse if it weren't for him. Hope i get a chance to thank him.

Anyways, gotta cut this note short. Time for my sponge bath (they said they can't trust me enough to leave me alone in the bathroom just yet). Don't fret, though, darlin. The nurse here's a total cow. Probably a dyke. i'm sure i'll hate the whole thing. Honest.

i'll see You soon, ma'am,

lance

* * *

September 17, 1994

Dear lance,

you better believe I'm gonna beat your ass when I get you alone. Never scare me like that again! If something happened to you, do you think I'd survive out here much longer? You're the most important thing in the world right now, understand? From now on, if you need to talk to anyone, you talk to Me. You're too important to play the hero out here, you hear Me Frontiersman?

That said, don't go beating yourself up (I'm the only one who's allowed to do that). I love you, and you're alive. That's all that matters. Get plenty of rest, do what the doctors tells you, and just be better to yourself from now on. We're getting new schedules now, and it looks like the boys in HQ learned their lesson from you. Doesn't look like they're gonna push us as hard as they have been. We got more down time now. When you get back out here, we're gonna use it. That's an order, soldier.

Always thinking of you,

Kim

P.S. Damn straight, you're gonna hate it. Don't be enjoying no sponge baths I'm not giving you. Remember who's ass that is (wink wink).

P.P.S Quit saying dyke, hun, it's a shitty thing to call someone.

* * *

Dr. Bishop,

Please find enclosed your first case packet; a page from Yablonski's diary, plus any and all relevant data that we could find on the man's early history. Please send us a summary and assessment of the file as soons as possible. Be sure to include any advice you can give us on how you would have us approach the man.

Sincerely,

President Timothy X Shensuken

* * *

July 4th, 1987

This is my first Independence day as a commissioned Auror. The fireworks are lovely tonight.

For me, that is. Not so much for Morrigan Devine. Just snuck a peek at today's copy of _the Herald_ , about the raid this morning. Ms. Devine, or rather, what was left of her, was found in the home of one Margaret Samuel.

Ms. Samuel was using her blood in some experiments; potions, dark spells, the usual. It didn't matter to Samuel that Ms. Devine was a single mother, that her twelve year old son is now an orphan, that he went four days without eating, in the Body-Bind Curse she left him in, or that he was half dead by the time we recovered him from their home.

Needless to say, Margaret Samuel's name was added to my list that same day. I'll remember the look on her face for as long as I live. Confused, more than anything. She truly didn't seem to understand why we were after her. She couldn't get it through her head that she was hurting anyone. And who could blame me for removing such a person from the world? She attacked first, after all…

And yet, not sooner had I handed in my report of the Samuel case did I receive three more. Three more dark wizards. Who knows how many more lives ruined? How much happiness has been erased from the world, never to be reclaimed?

It shouldn't have been like this. We're not Muggles. We're not savages. We ought to be beyond this. But we're not. We fall as far as we can, and then we just keep on falling.

Something went very wrong in Creation. The world is a rotten mess.

Look at us. Wizards don't starve. We live longer. We want for none of the bare necessities, all thanks to magic. This should mean utopia, a world where people only care about the pursuit of happiness and peace. Those who'd get in the way of that, in a world such as ours, are worse than even the lowest scum of the Muggle world. They will see justice be done, and it will be without mercy.

I wonder...what would be different now, if someone else were in my place, here in the office? Would they be strong enough, smart enough to do what needs to be done? To not let the worst possible failures of the earth fall into the hands of bureaucracy, suckling from the teet of the taxpayer for the rest of their days? I think not. I think, perhaps, civilization has found a new opportunity in me. I can change things now...maybe I'm the only one who can.

* * *

 **Report By**

Sebastian D. Bishop, MD

 **Subject**

Leopold Yablonski

 **Age**

Twenty-six

 **Sex**

M

 **Blood-status**

Pure

 **Childhood**

Born in Vancouver, Canada, parents immigrated to Seattle, Washington. His father, Orion, was a police detective with the MUS Department of Law Enforcement (same as he was in Canada), and his mother was a homemaker. Yablonski had one sibling, a sister named Sasha, who currently lives with her mother in Seattle to this day, as civilians.

No family history of mental illness or defect, and no prior criminal records, not so much as a detention during school either. He was popular, well-liked, got exceptional grades, and was even captain of his high school tennis team. Typical American overachiever.

 **Adulthood**

Upon becoming commissioned as an Auror, he was assigned an office in New Orleans, and later in Salt Lake City. He was still stationed here when the war began, and was appointed Lieutenant General shortly after enlisting.

Orion, his father, enlisted as a Sergeant for the Union, and was killed last year, in the Battle of Fish Creek. As far as Union records show, Yablonski has made no comment on his father's death, or anyone else in his family.

 **Assessment**

Subject appears to suffer from delusions of grandeur and superiority. Moreover, subject seems to be characterized overall by a sense of justice which overrides all else. Far from making him less dangerous than one would think, this makes him even more dangerous, due to his intelligence.

According to his earliest Congressional permanent records (Doc 8, sec 2. para 3), he specifically requested that he be transferred to Salt Lake City seven years ago. The date of his transfer coincides perfectly with the diary entry's date. It also happens to coincide with then-Representative Timothy Shensuken first announcing in an interview with _The Pacific Herald_ , that he was considering running for president, followed by a great deal of enthusiastic support.

From this data, Yablonski's true motives, and/or the efficacy in those motives, can only be

speculated upon, save for the clear correlation between Yablonski's expressed desire to bring justice to dark wizards (or perhaps merely criminals and ne'er do wells in general), and his flight from the capital to Salt Lake City. The fact that Salt Lake City just so happened to go on to become the capital of Rocky Mountains may or may not be a coincidence.

 **Advisement**

Do not underestimate him, ever. You're dealing with a man who has abandoned his home, and turned against his own family, just because it suited him. He is dangerous, and you can trust he'll never let his guard down. More data will be required to say anything beyond that.

* * *

 _"That's it?" asked Howe, eyeing Bishop incredulously._

 _"That's all I know so far," said Bishop, shrugging, "They didn't send me much. Just enough to confirm what everyone seems to already know. Almost like they just want me to tell them what they want to hear."_

 _"I see," Howe's head nodded in the flame, "I suppose that's fair enough."_

 _"Any other questions?"_

 _"Nope, that should do it. In any case, I'll be late for work."_

 _"Late for-oh right, time difference."_

 _"You'll get used to it," chuckled Howe, smiling._

 _With that, his face pulled back into the flame, which returned to its orange hue, only to be blown out by Bishop that same instant._

 _Exhausted from the day's labors, a feeling he'd always relished having after so many years of relative boredom, Bishop pulled his robe off and onto the floor. After a long, hard stretch, he then plopped down onto the bed and curled under the thin cotton blanket, his eyes on Hannah's best photograph propped up against his alarm clock, as he quickly drifted off to sleep._

* * *

General Leopold Yablonski is property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	6. Chapter 5

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

"I was privileged, in my day, for being one of only a few at the Ministry who had nothing to lose. At the time, I had no friends to speak of, only work acquaintances. My parents are long gone, and I've never been on the best of terms with my brother. As such, I had nothing to fear from my enemies. No one could go after anyone I cared about or hold them against me, since I had no one they could take. However, when the next war comes, I will not be so lucky as last time."

-Sherrod Howe

September 19th, 1994

 _(Translated from Russian)_

To: Vladimir Rumi Vadimovitch, ITL for BM, Dragon Grounds, Salekhard, Russia

From: Vadim Rumi Viktorovitch, Ft. Kelso, California, USA

Son,

You will be pleased to know that I am receiving professional help now. Brigadier General's orders. What you may be surprised to hear, however, is who the doctor is I am seeing. He's a freak, you see. A circus freak. He has fur, and the head of a cat, imagine! You will think me drunk while reading this, no doubt, but I tell you, it is the truth. The BG explained to me that he had an accident as a child. Polyjuice potion. I should have guessed right away, truthfully.

He has me taking this tonic to detoxify my system, help me with cravings. So far, it seems to be working well. I have not had the shakes in days. The only side effects so far seems to be that, rather than crave a drink, I now crave coffee. The doctor said this was a possibility.

The weather's not been bad this summer. After all this time, I think I'm finally getting used to California's heat. Not that I mean to gloat, of course. Although I do have it on good authority that conditions are improving in Salekhard. I hope this is true.

The men are also improving. The BG has allotted them more free time, made the shifts shorter so there's more time to go around. I won't pretend to understand her reasoning, but morale seems to be up, despite a recent spot of bother with a private who went mad the other day. Just as well, we are making even more headway in the north, taking more bases and camps in Idaho and Montana, which has raised the men's spirits even more. If only we could get rid of this damnable rabble, we could be running a sturdier ship around here again. As such, getting these widows and orphans asylum has become a top priority for us. The last thing we need is more whining mouths to feed.

Up in the City, Pietra and Sofia are still doing well. Pietra's getting straight A's in school, and Sofia's new boyfriend is treating her well. I just recently discovered that he's got a son of his own, and that he and Pietra have become good friends, though I would hardly know it from what I saw, bickering over a game of Exploding Snap. Incidentally, Pietra did confess to me later that she was indeed cheating. A girl after my own heart, that one.

Now I can't pretend to know whether you'll be relieved or indignant of the fact that your ex-wife and daughter are living well without you, but I believe you still deserve to be kept in the loop about them all the same. Just because you left them, doesn't mean you've abandoned your responsibility for them.

Well, perhaps that's not fair of me. You let yourself be taken alive, after all. That shows no small amount of responsibility. Forgive me, if I am unkind to you. I know full well that we've both paid for our sins and our failures plenty. We need not take it out on each other.

So let me conclude this letter by asking you once again to please write back to me, son. I long to speak with you again. It has been so long. I do not know if my soul will be able to rest easy if I die with your five-year-old face, full of tears and confusion, as the last memory of you I ever have.

Sincerely,

Your Father

* * *

 _Rachel Kane, sitting at her favorite spot on the Gryffindor table in Hogwart's Great Hall, waved over her two friends, Tori Hoffman and AJ Jackson, who were just walking in. Spotting her among the usual breakfast crowd, they waved back, and quickly took the seats Rachel had saved for them._

 _"Mail come yet?" asked Tori._

 _"Yeah, just now," Rachel replied, smiling and picking up a bunch of parcels from beside her own plate, "Here's something from your parents, and here's one from Blaine to me!"_

 _Meanwhile, AJ was already filling her plate. Rachel couldn't help but feel guilty whenever she received mail, knowing poor AJ and Ben had nobody to send them anything. They always told her not to, but it hit her hard all the same. AJ must have sensed Rachel's sudden hesitation, because she immediately stopped spreading apple jam over her english muffin, and instead turned to the other two girls, with a reassuring smile._

 _"Well go on, Rach!" she encouraged, "See what your big brother has to say for himself nowadays."_

 _"Yeah," Tori agreed, "Like, it's been how long since his last letter?"_

 _"A while," Rachel admitted._

 _She then opened the weathered envelope, and immediately started to read._

* * *

September 19th, 1994

Dear Rachel,

Thanks for the Hogsmeade cookies! You were right, I do love jammy dodgers, and the chocolate chip ones? To die for! Plus, they do go a long way in making this gross shit they call coffee go down easier. Call it a bonus.

Also, thanks for hearing me out, sis. I know Aaron's just looking out for us, but that doesn't make it any easier, you know? Even if we weren't in a war, this work would be outright cruel and unusual. Reading mail, censoring mail, sending mail, cleaning up owl shit, all by myself. Not that I need help or anything, magic does most of the work for me. It's just so damn lonely, you know? I miss you. I miss home. I miss everything.

Sorry for complaining, but I'm just damn sick of going to bed every night smelling like ink and bird poop. You know what they call me around here? Birdbrain Blaine. I don't know if they mean it as an insult, or if they were trying to be friendly, but whatever the case, it's still fairly indicative of my main issue here. We're in the bloodiest war since Grindelwald, and where am I? Beta Post, tending the owlery. Those are gonna be my war stories once all this is over; how I was left to rot in a giant bird cage.

Ha! Imagine how messed up those Thanksgivings are gonna be some years from now, huh? We're all gonna be sat at the table, all our nieces and nephews asking us about what the war was like. You're gonna give them the skinny of going to Hogwarts, Aaron's gonna tell them all about how he made captain and rode into battle on friggin Aethonans, and me? Well...maybe I'll tell them about the new cat psychiatrist? That was pretty weird.

Oh yeah, there's a new volunteer on base. A cat-man, with a British accent. Everyone says he's just always been like that. Weird stuff for sure, but hell, maybe it really couldn't hurt to make an appointment? I reckon all this stamp glue I've been licking may be going to my brain, because I'm about to climb the walls of this godforsaken place.

Anyways, don't worry about me, sis. Just keep doing what you're doing in school. And if any more shitheads over there start messing with you again, or if this new beau of yours ain't treating you right, come straight to me. I'll send 'em a howler:

"YOUR SUBSCRIPTION TO BOOTYLICIOUS MAGAZINE IS ABOUT TO EXPIRE!"

Oh yeah. Balls to the wall. Nobody messes with my sister. Not ever again.

I love you so much, Rachel. Take care, and write back soon.

Sincerely,

Blaine

xoxox

* * *

September 19th, 1994

Diary,

I'm exhausted, horrified, and I've just done the most reckless thing of my entire life, and that's fucking saying something. Let me start at the beginning.

It was morning

This morning I

They sent me

They told me there was this bad air raid on some ranch out in the desert. Weren't sure why they attacked, but they fought with the Secessionists there. It was bad, hundreds wounded, dozens dead. They had more medics coming, but they were taking too long I guess, because they asked me to come help. Why, why why? Why did I say yes? I'm not that kind of doctor! I shouldn't have!

Ok, I just caught my breath. Dunked my head in some cold water under the faucet. I can do this. I have to. I have to get this off my chest.

I did say yes to them. All they needed was someone who could apply basic first aid until the real medics came. I thought it was the least I could do. They're doing me a favor by letting me see patients, might as well meet them halfway on this, I figured. Once they outfitted me with a steel chest plate, just in case, I went with them to the battlefield.

It was close by, in the desert like I said. Flying distance. We hopped on some brooms, and I followed the lads there. Place was a smoking pit. Craters and small bushfires everywhere. Dead cattle, sheep….people. And I could smell everything. I had to breath through my mouth just to stop myself from gagging.

There was a camp all set up, tents filled with wounded. Wasn't much I could do for the hexxed, but the ones with burns, broken bones, those were easy enough, and also easy enough to sedate those who wouldn't calm down. Plus, there were plenty of nurses there to help. This went on for about a half hour, when all of a sudden, outside, a great, bright green flash illuminated the tent, and there was a screeching sound, like a train hitting hard on the brakes. Nobody dared look up, but me, I was stupid enough to look out the tent window. Off in the distance, there was a long line of bloodied bodies stretching back at least a hundred yards. There was a soldier there, walking down the line with his wand, going person to person, hitting them with the Killing Curse.

Then, looking down that line, confused as to what was going on, I saw they were all wearing Rockie uniforms. Immediately after, I saw one of these bodies moving, a boy no less than fourteen years old.

I panicked. I dropped what I was doing, and ran out of the tent, around it, straight to the boy, clutching my wand in my fist. People were calling out to me, but I didn't listen to them. I just fell to my knees at the boy's side. The soldier was just a few bodies away.

This kid, the Secessionist, he had shrapnel lodged into the side of his leg, and his breastplate was caved in, suffocating him, but he was still alive. Immediately, I got to work trying to undo the straps and let the kid breath. He was crying, scared, he was just a child!

The executioner, he was trying to pull me away, but I just screamed that he was still alive, and clawed at him. Then, once I got his armor off him, I saw clearly that he didn't have any rib fractures, just the shrapnel in his leg, and a bump on his head. He was going to be okay. I told him to his face that he was going to be okay. Then I heard the executioner screaming behind me.

" _Carpe Retractum_!"

That's when I flew back, fell flat on my ass.

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

The green light. The screeching. The kid stifled scream. I was petrified where I lay. My throat hurt, and my eyes were watering. Then the bastard walked over and pushed me back to the ground, put his boot on my chest.

"You see those flags, doctor?!" He pointed to the right, at three flagpoles off on a hill I hadn't noticed before, "Red flags! You know what they mean? NO QUARTER WILL BE GIVEN! Rockies come to this desert, they ain't leaving!"

This felt like half an hour while he pushed his heel harder and harder on the steel, choking me with the plate's collar. Just kept screaming, screaming, screaming, who's side was I on? What's my major malfunction? I better get the fuck over myself! He was a boy he was a boy he was a baby!

 _Bishop clutched his pencil in his fist, his hand shaking too much to continue writing. His mouth was hot and dry as his face contorted, and heaving gasps and sighs forced their way out, his tears stinging his eyelids. He then forced himself to count his breaths up to ten, before exhaling deeply one last time, and continuing on._

Then the captain came over and broke us up. Captain Grendelov (I think that's how it's spelled) of India Company, Third Battalion. He cusses out the executioner, tells him to get back to it, and then takes me by the shoulder, apologizes, says this guy's going to be doing laps until Christmas (like I give a damn, he just murdered a boy!). He takes me to his tent, sits me down at the war table, pours me a whisky. I took a sip, just to stop my hands from shaking, then asked him what just happened.

He tells me that the guy was right, that General Juliani himself has ordered that no quarter be given to any Secessionists that come to the Mojave. He says that it's too valuable a position. If they ever took the Mojave, they could surround and take LA. He's said that the Rockies know this full well. Juliani has air dropped flyers and sent letters all across Nevada and Arizona, warning them that the Union won't be taking prisoners. They come anyway. They put up the flags just recently to try and intimidate them further, but there's no telling if it works.

But the boy, I begged him! That was just a child he killed!

Grendelov tells me that if Yablonski thinks he's old enough to fight, he's old enough to die.

"Besides," he says, "He wasn't just some kid. He was a wizard. You're a Brit, aren't you? You guys have Harriet Potter. I read the news. Look at all the shit she's done, and how old is she?"

I didn't know what to say. I know he was wrong, but I can't put the words together to say how or why! All I could do was just down the rest of my drink, while a messenger poked his head in the tent and said the medics had arrived ahead of schedule. Then the captain sends me on my way, tells me to take a walk to clear my head, and that they'll be able to send someone to fly back to base with me soon. I asked if it was safe, and he said he had half the 2nd Battalion scanning the skies for a mile around, but if I found anything, to shoot up red sparks with my wand.

So I just sort of wandered into the hills, talking to myself, not really paying attention where I was going. At one point, I tripped and fell flat on my face in the dirt, onto a pair of corpses. I got sick and had to lose my breakfast to the bushes. Once I composed myself, I walked back, and a tear fell to my eye. They were both Rockies, both of their faces burned beyond recognition. Not wanting to look anymore, I turned away, and found the ranch's farmhouse off in the distance, with half of its roof fallen in. Beside it all, the ruined, burning remains of a pick-up truck beside a dirt road.

I don't know if it was fate, God's will, or my own dumb, stupid fucking curiosity, but despite my better judgement, I felt compelled to go there, see what it was that the Rockies were bombing, what all this was for.

I ran inside, and was immediately under the impression that there was something off about this house. I couldn't quite put my finger on it until I ventured further in, and saw a wall covered in various photos; a couple, a wedding, parties, a baby, who seemed to have Down Syndrome. Then it hit me. None of these photos were moving. This ranch was owned by a Muggle family!

Out of breath again, I ran throughout the house to see if there were any survivors, but found only corpses, a man and a woman, around fifty years old I'd wager. Afterward, I heard a clatter come from behind me, from upstairs. Wand ready, I cracked my way up the staircase, worried to death that it would collapse at any second. When I reached the top, I heard it again, and sensed the ceiling itself trembling a little. Scanning the room, my eye caught something, so subtle and small that, in hindsight, it's no wonder the other soldiers didn't find it. It was the outline of a trap attic door, with only a sliver of the string that once would've pulled it down, still attached.

With a gulp, and a gasp, I pointed my wand at the door, took a few steps back, and muttered,

" _Annihilare._ "

Three red sparks shot out, and in an instant, the wooden flap swung backward, and a step ladder fell down, along with a large mass that I immediately recognized as a person.

He screamed as he fell, and hit the deck with a gigantic thud, before he started crying.

"That hurts! It hurts!" he said over and over, "I want mommy! I want mommy!"

It wasn't until he took a step back onto his feet that I saw he had a large kitchen knife in his hand, and he was clutching it tight.

"YOU KILLED HER!" he screamed that time, and in a full sprint, came at me with it.

In a shock, and thinking fast, I cast _Flipendo_ at him, sending him forcefully backward, hitting his head on the step ladder with a sickening _wack_! As he collapsed, unconscious, I got a good look at his face for the first time, immediately recognizing him as having Down Syndrome.

While it was also clear this was the same person as was in the photos downstairs, this boy had clearly all grown up since then. He had a beard, and he was six feet tall if he was an inch. After checking his pockets for identification, I found a wallet, with a health insurance card inside. The boy was (is) twenty-one years old.

Immediately, my mind went to a dark place. His parents were old, for Muggles, and after a frantic second search around the house, I found nothing in their phonebook, nor in any of the many photos adorning the walls, to suggest that they had any other children, or any family to speak of at all, besides each other. If that was the case, the Muggle state government would have to put him in foster care.

I could hardly imagine it. A twenty-one year old Muggle with Down Syndrome in foster care? How would he survive? I saw plenty of foster kids during my residency in Beverly Hills. It's fucking Dickensian how they live! Molestation, abuse, lack of oversight, abject poverty, hunger, it's barbaric! Imagining this boy, this man, after losing his parents, will have to have his memory modified and be sent to a life like that, a mentally disabled person! If he were an actual child, he'd maybe have a chance at finding a good home, but someone with Down Syndrome? I truly couldn't imagine a best case scenario, tried as a might.

"If only this were a wizarding family, that would all be scarcely imaginable.", I thought to myself.

And that's when it dawned on me. My stupid, selfish, idiotic idea! I figured, this place was a mess, and they were mainly concerned with the Rockies. Maybe I could set all this up to look like a wizarding house, and say he's a Squib. Then they'd have him at the base, get him to be adopted by a wizarding couple. With the aid of magic, he'd not be nearly as much of a burden, not nearly so undesirable to adopt. Not to mention he'd possess a better standard of living than the very richest person in the Muggle world.

So, acting fast, I took every photo on every wall of the house and burned it in the fireplace. Then, I ran back outside to the two corpses, lifted their wands from their pockets, and planted them on the dead couple. Lastly (I thought it clever enough at the time), I transfigured their Muggle drivers licenses to look like Apparition licenses instead. Satisfied with my handiwork, I rushed back to Captain Grendelov, and put on as best a performance as I could muster, saying I'd found a survivor over at the ranch house, a wizard.

My throat tightened at his incredulous look. I should have known I'd made a mistake right then and there, but my foolish heart persisted in spinning the tale. I really laid it on thick, I did. I reckon he and a few of his soldiers came and followed me just to shut me up.

When we got there, I lead him straight to the boy, and said he'd be helpless without his parents. He asked me how I could be sure these were wizards, and I told him I checked his parents' bodies, and found wands on them. I bit my lip as he looked for himself. I only allowed myself to hope when I saw him check the man's wallet and looked at the Apparition license I'd forged. When he shook his head in disbelief, my hopes were dashed.

He said, "Tell me, Doc. Why is it that Mr. Trident's headshot on this here license isn't moving?"

I was stupid. It was the stupidest thing I'd ever done!

Sure enough, they wasted no time taking me back in irons. Conspiracy, that's the charge. I've been in this cell now for hours, it seems. They took my wand, and I was just lucky enough to've had my diary in my pocket when I left. It's about the only thing keeping me even a little calm at present.

What are they going to do to me? Are they going to have my wand? Are they going to court martial me or something? Will they indict me back in Britain?

Oh God, Lord Jesus, I'm sorry! Mother Mary, Joseph, Lord God, forgive me, I'm so so sorry! I don't want to go to jail! I don't want to go to jail! Please, I'm sorry!

* * *

 _Suddenly, Bishop's ears perked as the door to the cell opened up. Inside walked the four-footed Brigadier General Green, standing at attention, her arms crossed behind her back. Her expression was lackadaisical, one of bemused disappointment, as she rolled her eyes at the sight of him._

" _Brigadier General!" Bishop shrieked, springing to his feet._

" _Relax, Doctor Bishop," Green replied, waving her hand dismissively, "That little show you put on for us, really wasn't much of a conspiracy. You were never going to pull the wool over our eyes. We knew all along that it was a Muggle ranch. After Virgil, you can bet we make damn sure of where we fight. Besides, I think it's pretty clear you've learned your lesson. What's more, your intentions were noble enough, and you'd just seen your first battlefield ever. I can hardly blame you for overreacting and trying to play hero."_

 _Bishop's heart was pounding in his chest as he softly hyperventilated, his fur standing on end as his tail stood rigidly upward. At the back of his mind, he resented her accusing him of overreacting, but he hadn't the heart to make a noise._

" _I'm sending you home to the Ranken's for the night," Green continued, "Then you can continue your normal duties in the morning."_

 _She began to turn away._

 _"What about the kid from the ranch house?" Bishop called out, not thinking, "What'll happen to him?"_

 _Green turned back, "We haven't decided yet. You roughed him up pretty bad with that Knockback Jinx, so we're keeping him in the hospital, sedated for now. My guess is we do as we have been doing in situations like these. Modify the kid's memories, make the attack on the ranch look natural, a gas leak or something. We checked, and he has no next of kin, so we'd have to hand him over to the Muggle authorities."_

 _"Where he'll just be put in their foster care system!" Bishop heard himself speak, but his mind was too blank to make sense of anything._

 _Green sneered. Then, she stepped forward, and gazed up at him fiercely._

 _"Listen, Bishop. Over a hundred thousand people have died in this war. More than 60% of those have been Muggles. That's a helluva lot of orphans, pussy cat. Why does this kid deserve better than they've been getting? Because he's retarded?"_

 _"Yes! Well...yes and no. He's got Down Syndrome. Who's going to believe him, if he ever told anybody about wizards? What's the point in just handing him over, when he's that special a case?"_

 _"We don't know how smart he is. Just because he's a retard, doesn't mean he's a drooler."_

 _"So? How's an average Muggle going to know the difference, if he starts talking about cat people and wizards?"_

 _"This is a discussion, Bishop. Not a debate."_

 _"I think you're wrong, ma'am. I think if you weren't hearing me out at all, we wouldn't be_ having _a discussion."_

 _Her eyes went ablaze and her lip curled ever further, as finally Bishop was able to form thoughts again, albeit only ones screaming "What are you doing, what are you doing?!"_

 _"He's still a Muggle," she insisted, "How would he survive in our world any better?"_

 _"He'd be no different from all the Squibs out there."_

 _The little woman sighed, and scratched her dirty blonde sideburns as she stared at her boots. While she pondered, Bishop's hands were trembling, and his lips were suddenly sealed quite tightly, hard enough to cramp his jaw._

 _"I'll think on it," she said at last, "Just get out of here for Thor's sake, and get some rest."_

 _Wasting not a second more, Bishop finally side-stepped past Green, and spun a hard right._

 _"And Doc?"_

 _Bishop turned back around with a fright._

 _"Anyone ever tell you that you sound Irish when you get testy?"_

 _Bishop chuckled, apprehensively._

 _"I….I get if from my parents, I suppose. They were from Belfast."_

 _"I see," she said, then cracked a soft smile, nodding._

 _With that, Bishop turned back around, and started down the thin, concrete corridor of the brig. As he stepped back into the warm California sun, he breathed in an immense sigh of relief, and hurriedly made his way back to the Ranken's place._

 _"What the fecking hell did I do?" he whispered._

* * *

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Kane siblings, the Jackson siblings, and Tori Hoffman, are property of littlebityamelie


	7. Chapter 6

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

Chapter 6

"Bigotry has never made any logical sense to me. Why would people knowingly make enemies of an entire group, and for such arbitrary reasons? Here, the issue is blood purity, while in America, it's race. If we're ever to survive as a species, we must all wake up, and focus on the real evil of this world:

Bloody cats!"

-Sherrod Howe

September 20th, 1994

[ _Excerpt from_ Letters to Sister, _by Timothy Hataali_ , _published February, 2004. Chapter 6: The Dream Team._ ]

That's what we called ourselves. Not right away, of course. I don't think we took up that name until about four or five months into our relationship, such as it was. I'll never forget those guys, even though those that're still alive have long gone their separate ways. Fellas, ladies, if you're reading this, I just want to say thanks. It meant a lot, knowing you guys had my back, no matter how fucked up things got. I've carried that with me, and I hope I carry that same spirit into this book. So yeah, thanks guys.

Pleasantries aside, let's get back to brass tacks here. You people didn't pay to hear my life story. Well, I guess you kinda did, but you know what I mean!

After having settled into Ft. Kelso, I finally decided now would be the best time to write Little Cricket another letter. For one thing, it was the middle of the night, and I still couldn't sleep. Of course, our bunk was cramped as all hell. This wasn't as big a problem for me as it was for Elk, since I was still little, but that didn't stop the smell from getting to me. All those sweaty, stressed-out refugees, some of whom are wont to shit and piss the bed from all they've been through? It's enough to keep a boy awake for days.

So, not being able to sleep, I figured I'd try to cheer myself up by writing that letter I promised her. Elk still wasn't talking to me, and I hadn't learned where the guys were staying yet, so I'll admit it, I was pretty damn lonely that night.

I remember by this point, I was still getting used to using magic whenever I wanted, so for a minute after casting _Lumos_ to write the thing, I was really, really paranoid. I was even halfway to the tent flap with my wand in hand, to check for guards, before I realized that we _all_ had wands now.

Well, I got a good chuckle out of that, earning myself a swift kick in the knee by this old lady sleeping nearby. She was at least eighty, so I just apologized for waking her up, and went back to our bunk. Poor woman's been through a lot, I figured, and besides that, got to respect your elders, right?

Anyhow, wand in one hand, quill in the other, inkwell in my lap, I set out to write my first letter from this damn place. Here's what I came up with:

* * *

Hey Amy!

First off, sorry Elk and me haven't been righting as often as we used to. We just got moved to a new camp, this time out of the dessert. The Major said this is our last stop, and that will be getting a new home upstate.

"Soon enough", he says.

Whatever that means.

Anyways, it's been about a week or something since we settled in, and I have to be honest. This is the worst camp we've been in yet. It's so damn crowded, Amy! We have to share our tent with like 20 other people, and a couple of them keep waking me up! One of them has nightmares, and the other just likes touching my head while I sleep, then running back to his bunk when I wake up.

I asked a soldier how many of us there are, and he said around a thousand! Can you believe it? And what's worse, there's only like 1 outhouse every 50 tents, and they say we have to wait in line once a week to get showers. And get this, there's hardly any other boy 7th graders, just like the other camps. I guess we really were just that lucky to've gotten out, huh sis? Yablonski got the rest. Man that sucks.

It's not all bad, though. The food's pretty good, waay better then Ft. Joshua. Plus, we still got actual beds to sleep in, which is always a bonus to what it was like on the street last year. We have to go to school too, and I know it sounds crazy, but I never realized just how much I missed it. I guess it's just nice to do something normal for once. Don't have to worry about surviving anymore, just homework, like we're supposed to.

Anyway, the teachers are mostly pretty cool, especially Mr. Taylor, who's kind of a dork, but also really funny. He used to be in the Wyoming state senate before they siseeded, and kicked him out for being a Prugressive.

School was also good because I got to meet up with the few boys in my grade they do have here (I bet I'm friends with all of them by now). You got Hunter, this fat kid from Vegas, Little Mike, this kid that looks like a squirrel, and acts like one too, and you got Big Mike, this guy in high school, who's kind of a meat head, but really nice.

We also found these two girls who Big Mike vouched for, so we figured they were cool enough to let them hang out with us. There's this gal my age, Jill, who's really, really into Frontiersman comics (although I bet she only reads the girly ones with Tiger Lily in them), and her big sister Jigs, who I literally thought was a boy for about three days straight. She's also a Navajo, which is cool, only Jill's adopted, so she's a honky like the guys. Still, I'll take what I can get. Only other Diné I've met so far is Two Bows, a medicine man three tents down from us, and his granddaughter, Bella. Only he's deaf, and she's always busy taking care of him.

Mostly though, we haven't all been able to play together. At least half of us are usually doing chores (they're making us do chores here!), although I can't really complain. At least that means I can do some magic. I never realized until we had to leave the reservation just how much magic most kids do all the time! Remember how me and Elk only got our wands when we were at school? Well at Kelso, I learned we didn't have to be hiding our wand after all! We can just have them in our pockets whenever! Do they let you have your wand whenever? Well, I guess they'd have to, unless the Resistance is using guns now. Are you using guns now?

We did get to play for a little bit, though. We snuck out of camp, ran into the trees near Gamma Post, and had a game of Frontiersman. I was Frontiersman (of course), Jigs was Tiger Lily, Big Mike was Windigo Will, and the other kids were his hostages that we had to save. There was this really funny moment where Jigs used Tiger Lily's feminine charm on Will, then when he got close, shot red sparks in his eye while I jumped on him from behind. From there, we just dogpiled Mike for a while. It was really cool, Amy. Fun, like back home.

That's when Elk found us. It wasn't pretty, the way he screamed at me for running off and ducking my chores. Said I almost got us kicked out, and even though I said I was sorry, he said he didn't care. Little Mike, though, he must have not been paying attention, because he still ran around like we were still playing. Started slaping Elk's belly crying "Take that, Willy's hentchman!" or something dumb like that.

Then Elk just pushed him away and yelled "Back off, paleface!" and then we went...back to the tent.

The worst part was, Little Mike came up to me just before we all went to bed, a few hours ago. He asked Jigs what's a paleface, and she told him that her dad used to say that word when he got drunk, so now Little Mike thinks that Elk was drunk. He even gave me a thermos of coffee (although where he got it I don't know, and I don't want to know). Said "Give him this, Free Bird. It helps with drunk." Poor guy. He's like a baby, Cricket. Why's Elk got to be a dick to him? It's not like Little Mike killed Mom. Yablonski did. Next time you write, could you please tell him to be mad at Yablonski, not Mike? He won't listen to me when I say it.

Anyway take care, Little Cricket, and give 'em hell for us! Nu'umi unangwa'ta!

Signed, your brother,

Free Bird Tim

* * *

Dear Diary,

Another bad day. Had to turn down five refugees for treatment. I added them to the wait list, but seeing as the soldiers have to have top priority, I don't like their chances. There's just too many of them! It's hard for me to even enjoy helping the people I am, knowing how many out there still need me. But what can I do? I'm just one man, and I've already booked myself enough appointments to give me a 70 hour work week for the foreseeable future, in just three days! I'd originally planned to give myself about 80, but my own advice is coming back to haunt me. That free time I suggested the BG give the men, turns out applies to me as well. After my outburst yesterday, she insists that I take my meals in the mess hall like everyone else, and be in bed by 11. My big mouth has buggered me twice, it seems. Not allowed to eat by myself anymore.

From there, more of the same bullshit as always happened at lunch today. More stares, more whispering, more giggles they think I can't hear, but thanks to these "freak" ears of mine, I can. When finally I did find a bench to sit at by myself, half a platoon swarmed it just as I'd dug into my meal. At least they asked permission first. Hell, at first, they were even friendly, or seemed like it. However, that's when the very worst of today happened.

They started chatting, making jokes, sharing war stories, mostly leaving me alone, and actually starting to put me at ease. Then, one of them started into this diatribe against X-Ray Company. Never heard of them before, but I suppose they're from this thing called, the 99th "All-Werewolf" Regiment. Went off about these "diseased freaks" and how "I'll beat the crap out of the first one of those furry fuckers that show their face in this mess hall", making these bigoted jokes about whether they've got dog cocks, and then they all looked at me. My face went hot, and they all started laughing even harder.

Then, this same bastard went off in particular against X-Ray Company's 2nd platoon. They're all Indians, I suppose, because he said "Those redskins, man. I can at least see letting them in if they're werewolves, they can at least fight, but why do we have to babysit all the rest of these bush-niggers?"

They all started nodding and saying shit like "amen to that!", while my jaw just dropped.

"Oh, what?" he said, and looked at me incredulously, "We've got Rockies to kill, don't we, pussy? How am I supposed to trust some cherry to watch my back? They don't know how to fuckin' use a wand! If they did we wouldn't have to save their asses, would we?"

There was a silence, and we just stared at each other for a moment, until his gaze pushed me out of my seat, causing me to pack up my food, and leave, without turning back.

"Yeah, fine kitty kitty. Go ask one of these Injuns to give you a belly rub, spiky dick!"

The table roared with laughter, kissy noises, and more taunts of "Spiky dick, that's your name now, Dr. Spiky! Spiky Dick!"

Stares and whispers I can survive, but I haven't been treated like that since I graduated from Hogwarts.

That's to say nothing of all those racial slurs, all that bigotry. I can't make heads or tails of it. We're fighting for the Union, for freedom and equal rights for American Indians! These men are fighting and dying and sacrificing right along side him. How can he and his ilk say all this? I just….

One silver lining today. I made a new friend in this Company X.

They've their own barracks, on the far southeast corner of the base. Suppose this is why I hadn't heard of them before today. Not like the army wants to advertise the fact that werewolves are staying on the base with them. Poor bastards. Some of my most heartbreaking cases back at St. Mungo's were werewolves.

This one I met in the woods between HQ and Company X's barracks, under a rather nice and shady tree. I tried to enjoy my lunch on that basis, until a gigantic black fellow walked out of the bushes from behind. Bald, muscular, camo wife-beater, goatee, rather imposing. Apparently, this was his spot. He liked to sit there and write letters to his younger brother in Sacramento, Nick. I offered to get up and move somewhere else, but he said it was alright. He liked the company. Introduced himself as Private First Class JR Foxx, X-Ray Company's Third Platoon, the Crookjaws. His friends call him Randy.

We chatted, Randy showed me Nick's photo in his wallet, I told him my story, and he gave my condolences, said he knows what that's like. I supposed he would at that.

By that time, I was about finished with my lunch, and he was about finished with his letter, so we parted, and he kindly gave me a bit of chocolate: a Choco-Gator. I looked on the package and sure enough, they're made by the same company as Chocolate Frogs, trading cards and all, they're just alligator shaped instead of frog. I suppose frogs didn't sell well in the states?

In any case, I just finished my treatment plans for the patients I saw today, and have really just been writing all of this to help put me to sleep. I suspect I shall be nodding off soon. I must say, at this point, the bed is starting to take my form and sink in. Not quite as comfortable as it was when I got here. I'll have to remind myself to flip it next chance I get. Also, to write Hannah a letter. It's been days and I've not even started one.

God….I'm starting to miss her. One thing I don't think I've prepared myself for, has been the loneliness. I'd grown so used to the smell of her hair, the feel of her, the taste of her, her warmth. Last night, I woke up at three in the morning after a nightmare, hugging a pillow tight. All of a sudden, I felt tears coming on, because I wished more than anything in the world, in that moment, that the pillow was her.

At least I still have her photos. Good God, I've not wanked so many times a night since college. At least it puts me back to sleep. For now.

Till next time, Diary.

* * *

Dear Nick,

Glad to hear you're making friends in school, but you really do need to make sure you pass your tests. We're not on the street anymore, you're gonna need to learn normal-ass magic now, like everyone else. Even I had to do it when I was your age. It's all gonna pay off one day, trust me. And yes, to answer your question, Krysten is the boss of you. We filled out the paperwork the same day I shipped out, she's your mama now. Don't worry though, little soldier. We'll have time to hang out when I get home. I'll bring home a pretty nurse off the base, marry her, and I'm gonna count on your to be my best man.

One last thing, and this is for the last time: no, it does not matter that you're black. You are not allowed to say nigga, and if I catch you even writing it in these letters, much less saying it, I'm gonna smack that black right off your ass when this war's over. Dad used to always tell me, "Never call anyone something you wouldn't like a white man calling you", and I'm sticking by that.

Anyways, made a new friend today. The new shrink, Dr. Bishop. Got turned half-cat in an accident at school. You take care that doesn't happen to you, little man. Family's already got a dog, we don't' need a cat too. Make the potions your teacher tells you to make, and nothing else. You'll get to the fancy shit in high school, when you take your NEWTs.

Days so far are still pretty chill. They still only have us on reserve except for that once a month, so after drills, we spend most of the day playing basketball, Quidditch, wrestling, poker. It's a pretty sweet gig, to be honest, especially since all the guys are in the same boat. Never knew there were so many of us, until the draft took us all out of hiding. I just hate to think of the same guys on the other side of the desert. We got no-prisoner orders out here in the desert, so at least I know I ain't infecting nobody, but I still got to kill other wolves sometimes. Other guys like me, just doing what they had to to survive, you feel me?

Last night was the last full moon, right? Everyone else is sick in the barracks in bed from the after-effects, and here I am always just walking around giving all the rest of these guys noogies, fucking with 'em, trying to cheer 'em up, clown around you know? Putting my God-given stamina to use for once. Only this time, this buddy of mine, Terry, he wasn't laughing like usual.

Turns out, he had to give this fun-sized wolf the chomp. He goes down, blood spilling everywhere, turns back human, and he's like 10, 11 years old. That's how young Yablonski's recruiting, the fucker. And he's sending them here, knowing we have no choice but to 86 the dumb motherfuckers. And man, Terry, he's just dead to the world now. I didn't know what the fuck to say to him, so I just went for a walk, wrote you this letter.

Just needed to share this shit with you, so you know that I mean when I say, I'm putting my life on the line just like I always have, so we can survive. I ain't letting my baby brother kill for Yablonski's punk-ass. I got you a home with Krysten and John, and I'm gonna do whatever it takes to keep that home safe. If that means I gotta rip some fools to shreds, I'm gonna do it, even if I don't like it. It's not pretty work, but we gotta do it. We got to. Freedom ain't gonna defend itself, you know.

Anyways, hope this gets you. I swear that egghead in the Owlery is sniffing too much envelope glue, cuz your letters to me keep getting sent to my man Pepe from Squad A, don't know why.

Write back soon, bro. Love you.

Randy

* * *

lance,

I was just thinking about you, tonight. All the other gals are asleep, so I decided to tuck Myself in tonight, au naturale. As I write this, I'm eyeing Myself over, scanning Myself. Pale tits….brown tan tummy, toned with abs….thick yellow curls around My secret place, under the tan line.

I want you to imagine that we're back in that old locked classroom in town, you lying on the dusty, dirty ground where you belong. I wave My wand, and your hands and feet are locked in place with steel braces conjured into the floor. I'm wearing a big, fluffy fur coat, and nothing else. Slowly, I peel the coat off down the middle, the wand still in My hand. you can just barely see My belly button as you start to rise to the occasion, your heart a flutter.

I scoff, and flick My wand downward at you, as it elongates into a whip, and cuts into you, leaving a faint red line on your belly. That's what you get for being so naughty, you filthy thing. However, I'm a merciful Mistress, and it does please me that My darling pet should find Me so beautiful, so I proceed to plant tender little butterfly kisses along your sensitive wound.

Just as My kisses reach your nipple, who should walk in but Captain Grendelov, surprised to see us in flagrante delicto like this. Just as he's about to run away and report U/us, and you're about to try to explain it's not what it looks like, I hex your mouth shut, and close the door on the captain's face, leaving him in here with U/us. As he turns back to U/us in confusion, I finally bare Myself, only to him, and not you. All you can see is My round ass, My toned legs, My scarred back, My long, crimped blonde hair that goes down to the small of My back. Cap, on the other hand, can see everything.

"Don't mind lance," I assure him, "he can wait his turn….care to join in, Captain?"

I tweak My nips to entice him as his mouth starts to water, and your heart starts to pound out of it's chest, your tiny, useless member harder than ever, and well out of your reach.

Grendie can't resist, and scoops Me up in his arms as he slams Me down onto the desk, and rips his clothes off with My help. He takes Me again and again and again, while you lay there, long forgotten. you're in your place, and I am in Mine, being pleasured in ways you could never, ever hope to do yourself. And in that moment, all I can think of is how much I love you, and how desperately you need Me. your need, your jealousy, the spectacle of it all, the burning, aching pain in your balls as you begin to weep and beg for release, that you're just plain not going to get tonight, so you just lose yourself in My cries of ecstasy as I come over, and over, until My pleasure and your pain become fused as one in the air; a bond that will last as long as either of us are still breathing.

I know I don't have to tell you that you don't have my permission to come to this, but knowing that you're sitting in that hospital, in agony, because of Me, and this delicious dream I've made up for us, will make it all the more fantastic once I'm finally able to visit you this Friday. That'll make it two weeks since your last orgasm, a new record for both of us (which is the only reason I'm actually telling you when it'll happen this time).

I'm going to lull Myself to sleep to this dream now, and as I snuggle into my bunk, warm under the covers, riding the high of My orgasm, I hope I dream of you, My pet, My lover, My slave, My best friend, and My reason for still fighting.

Miss you and love you every day,

Kim

* * *

 _lance's breath was deep and labored, as he read and reread her letter with shaking hands. Unable to bear it anymore, he grabbed the glass of partially-melted ice from his bedside tray, and let his genitals soak in it, easing the unbearable swelling under his hospital gown. he lulled himself to sleep in that position, imaging Her naked, sated body, cuddled up next to him, telling him what a good boy he was. When he did fall deep into his potion-aided sleep, he was smiling._

* * *

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	8. Chapter 7

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

Chapter 7

"I like to think of the art of deduction as being the Muggles' closest approximation to divination. A great deal of my life has been shaped by prophecy, but one need not be a Seer to know the future. Given the right data, and a good smoke, it is entirely possible to not only know what a man has done, but what he will do. Thanks to these tools of my trade, to date, I can say with pride that I've only ever been surprised by one person. I keep her photo with me at all times."

-Sherrod Howe

September 24, 1994

Dear Diary,

Filled out a requisition form at HQ today, hoping to employ some assistants, and lighten this workload a bit. Won't know for two or three weeks, but I consider it vital. The wait list hasn't gotten any longer yet, but it's plenty long as it is. I'm worried that I won't be much effective for very long, if I'm this busy. Just a few healers with good bedside manner is all I'd need.

On the plus side, it's the one-week anniversary of my newfound on-base practice, and I'm starting to settle into a routine with the patients I can see, and a much more pleasant one than what I'm used to. From 6am to around 4pm, I see patients in forty-five minute therapy sessions, and then from 4 to 9, I brew and prepare the potions they need for their prescriptions. As per the BG's instructions, soldiers get top priority, followed by refugee children, then all the other refugees come last. To that end, out of the 70 patients I've seen this week, 50 are soldiers with PTSD, 18 of them have been kids, and only two have been adult refugees, which happened to be at the top of the list.

It was hard listening at first, heartbreaking. I'll admit, however, it was therapeutic even on my end to know that what happened to me back at the ranch was not unique to me; they've all been touched by very similar incidents, where they themselves have had to personally kill surrendered Rockies, and the kids have had to leave fellow refugees for dead, or even kill ones that were more violent or desperate than the rest. What was one terrible incident to me, is these folks' everyday. I don't know if this is something I want to get used to, but I am starting to accept that this is just the way things are.

On the plus side, I may end up going through it faster than I thought. Very few of the soldiers I've spoken to are nearly as bad off as Lance was. They all needed help, of course, but nothing one or two good sessions and the right potion can't fix. I've gathered that the downtime I had Green give them has helped immensely, as well as being able to visit Lance in the hospital now. Funny how half the camp was calling for his head, now more than that is overflowing his room with get-well cards, flowers, candy. I check up on him once every night before I leave base, and he's even begun "tipping" me with sweets, just for making sure he's okay. I think it's, well...sweet of him, heh.

It's also given me an interesting insight into the other types of candy they sell over here, most by Bott's Confections. There's Axwell Regis Jellied Straw, Phantom's Long-Lasting Breath Mints, Peanut Butter Firecrackers, Crabby Apples (bite-sized candied crabapples), Choco-gators, of course, plus various flavors of patsies (they just call them pies here).

They've also this interesting brand of soda pop, Gobbypop. I recall quite liking Pepsi back at UCLA (made the Polyjuice potion aftertaste wash out of my mouth), so I'm glad they've got a similar drink in the wizarding half of things. Closest thing to pop we've got back home is Butterbeer, and I could never finish a glass of the stuff.

Now aside from Lance, none of my other handful of my scheduled regulars seem to stand out. They've been in war, they've lost loved ones, they're traumatized, and so on. Long story short, they're serious cases, but not much to say about them beyond that.

There is one lad, however, that stands out as more than a little bit of a strange case. He's the only one I've been tasked with treating specifically by name, aside from Lance. This one isn't even from the base, I merely came recommended to him, by the BG I'm assuming. Little Indian lad, one Don by name. Apparently I'm not even allowed to know where he's staying right now, only that he's close by, and he's the ward of someone important.

In any case, he's got a hard road ahead of him. Separated from his parents while fleeing Montana, got put in a labor camp, and only recently got liberated. Doesn't do well in crowds, refuses to take any potions, or even be near a potion, and he's got a king-sized case of survivor's guilt to boot. He says they caught him trying to run away to LA, to try and find his parents, but got picked up just a few miles west of Helena. His guardian (still wouldn't say who), got transferred to a post near here, and and well, here he is. I hope the boy'll find his parents, if they're still alive. He's a good kid, and scared, all alone. In the meantime, I'll just have be there for him.

Oh, how could I forget? Hank's been awake for three days now, and he's one of my regular patients. Green wouldn't say whether he'll be outright adopted into the wizarding world yet, but she has gone far enough as to hire him a lawyer. I thanked her, and asked her why, and she told me,

"Doc, this is way over even my head."

To make a long story short, turns out Hank's situation is not unique in this war. Hank's lawyer (Diaz I think his name is), is part of a firm who also represents a Muggle girl with severe Autism, who's also been orphaned. They've been representing her for a few months now, on yet another officer's request, and been working to get her adopted as what Diaz calls an "honorary Squib". He told me it could go all the way to the Supreme Court.

In any case, he assures me that he'll do right by Hank, no matter what.

Now, about Hank:

After he woke up, I was tasked with ascertaining his mental capabilities. I interviewed him from his hospital bed, told him what happened to his parents, and it was obvious right away that he was in mourning over his parents. He cried when I confirmed his fear that his mother and father were dead, and he immediately broke down crying, setting the interview proper back for more than a day. However, that alone was very telling. He understands death, and what it means for his situation.

After he was at least somewhat consolable, I allowed him to ask some questions, taking notes as he did so. Although he slurred his speech quite a bit, and often stuttered to find the right words, he was at the very least intelligent enough to have an intelligible conversation with.

Something which was immediately telling was that he only *now* asked me why I looked like a cat.

"What's with that costume?" he asked.

I told him that I turned myself into this, when I was a child. He asked me,

"So how did a kitty turn himself into a man?"

The room chuckled a little at that. Fair question, I supposed. I replied to him, that I was born human, but that I was a wizard. He asked me,

"Wizard? Like...a magical wizard? Like Merlin from Disneyland?"

I told him yes, that Merlin was real, and lived a long time ago. That there were lots of wizards like him, but he was just one of the more powerful ones. Having learned this, he immediately asked me,

"So if you're magic, does that mean you know Santa?"

I chucked, a little meekly, and said I'd never met the man personally, but that I heard he was magical indeed. This made him smile.

"And are there elves too?"

I told him, oh yes there were. And dwarves, dragons, giants, and unicorns.

"Unicorns?" he stuck his tongue out, "Ick. That's...sissy stuff."

I begged to differ, and told him unicorns were very useful creatures in our world. As an example, I pulled out my wand: Snakewood and unicorn hair, eleven inches (unyielding). I proceeded to then demonstrate a bit of magic at work, by transfiguring his bedsheets from white to bright green (he said it was his favorite color), and he was amazed.

"Unicorn hair does that?" he said, eyes wide.

I said indeed it did, or at least it helps channel a wizard's magic. He even asked me to teach him how, and I had to break it to him that no, sorry, Muggles can't do magic. He asked me what's a Muggle, and I told him, and that this was why wizards had to hide from Muggles, that we were dangerous to each other and had to keep ourselves a secret. Poor child, he swore he wouldn't tell anyone.

"Friends keep secrets, right?"

Then he got quiet for a minute and thought to ask,

"So, did some evil wizard kill mama and papa?"

This….I didn't know how to respond to, at first. So, I told him what I could. I said,

"Hank...most wizards are good people. These good people...are in a war right now, with a bad wizard," (he nodded to show that he understood what I meant) "and this bad wizard, is very good at tricking good people into doing bad things. It was he who tricked them into killing your parents. Here at the base...we're the good guys, who want to help you find a new family, who can love you and take care of you."

He smiled, he hugged me, he started to cry again, "Thank you Doctor Bishop."

I bit my lip, wrecked with guilt for flatly lying to this poor boy.

"We're the good guys."

Sure, that's what I thought a couple weeks ago. But now...I just genuinely don't know anymore.

Maybe I'm just tired. I've had about 15 hours of sleep in five days, after all. Could be making me depressed, overthinking things. I knew this wouldn't be a pretty little adventure, didn't I? People die in war, and not everyone drafted to war will believe in the cause for fighting. But then...why can't I shake this feeling that something is fundamentally wrong.

Blimey. Listen to me. I am overthinking this. I've caught up with my work, and I finally have a chance at eight hours tonight. I'm going to take it, damnit.

Goodnight, diary.

* * *

September 25, 1994

Dr. Bishop,

Excellent work so far. Your input from your last report was well-received. Find enclosed the next two diary entries, plus some additional, extraneous material. We also would like to dissuade your fears about requiring the entire diary all at once. We assure you this isn't necessary. Trust that we have plenty of experts on this case, doing much more thorough analysis of the diary. As we told you from the beginning, you are not the only expert on this case. The reports we ask of you are mainly for reference.

Sincerely,

President Timothy X Shensuken

* * *

October 31st, 1987

It finally happened. After all these years of hearing his voice, Death visited me today. I'll let this be my record of the event, though I know I won't ever forget it.

I'd taken a seat in my bedroom, holding my black book as the apple in my lap. As I flipped through the pages of the book, reminiscing my little victories these past months, gazing into the ends of Death himself, I felt my apple grow warm to the touch, and was soothed as the little heartbeat within thumped against my bare skin.

"You've taken a liking to him, haven't you?"

I turned with a start, having heard nobody come in. There in the light of the setting sun, silhouetted against the window frame, was a grand specter, eight or nine feet tall. The room expanded at his entering, as his form loomed over me. At first I was frightened, falling out of my chair with a scream, but as I looked back up at him, he didn't approach me, nor speak. It was then my hands began to tremble. I'd always suspected he'd come. He'd come already, on my birthday, two years ago. Only now….he was here, looking down on me, smiling, as a father proud of his son. And yet, no sooner had he arrived, than did he vanish.

No matter. His message is clear. The apple lay on the floor beside me, plump and glistening as ever. It burned in my hand like a stone on a summer day, and in my mind's eye, visions of righteous rage and feelings of vengeance took hold of me. In my other hand, I grasped my book, ever-filling from my war on darkness. The names of every man, woman, and child I have killed, and there are many so far.

Those bleeding hearts down at the office say I'm no better than they are, but in truth, the fact that I killed them makes me better than they are. If they were better, they would have won. I wouldn't have beaten them. But no. They were weak, and they held my country back with their weakness. Natural selection; that's our kind's only true path to utopia. And the instrument of this will, this divine plan, is clear as my reflection in this gorgeous fruit.

I am Death. And I come to do Death's work.

* * *

November 2nd, 1987

I'm concerned by something. I now hear Death always, whether or not I have the apple at hand, and I can see him as well. I was just now handing in my paperwork from last night's' raids, and he was standing right behind her, visible only to me, of course. It'll be something to get used to, to say the least.

Mom and Dad wrote to me today. They want me to visit for Thanksgiving. I suppose I should go, keep up appearances. It's not as though the Department is advertising the fact that most qualified, decorated Auror's name is mud. Here, I'm "the Killer", but they still think me a hero, a genius. They're not wrong, I suppose. I just hope I don't get into another debate with Dad. He's still following that Jap from California. I knew he'd be trouble. Dark wizards are bringing this whole country down around our ears, and what is he trying to make the issue of the day? Indian rights.

Doesn't this idiot realize that literally nobody cares? It's a lost cause, if ever there was one. North Dakota, Texas, Nevada, Idaho, they'll never bend to the kind of laws he's proposing. Even if he managed to get more Integrationists into New Orleans along with him, how the hell is he going to enforce this? Indian subservience has been embedded into the entire ideology of Libertarianism. Challenge that, and you challenge the ideology which half of society hold dear. It'd be as though you were introducing prima nocta, or abolishing the free market. It could lead to civil war.

And yet, this Shensuken, he's popular, and I'm still young. If it's not him, it'll just be someone else, looking to throw a wrench in the machine I'm trying to build here.

If this is the case, then one thing is certain. I need to work faster.

* * *

 **Assessment**

Yablonski's shift from delusions of grandeur to possible hallucinations is monstrously abrupt. If we're to take him at his work, he's been having such hallucinations for years. Truthfully, it's incredibly hard for me to believe that this was the next entry of significance that's been needed for reference. Surely he'd have made some mention to this before.

Whatever the case, my Muggle training tells me that this is an obvious case of paranoid schizophrenia, possibly informing his delusions of grandeur. However, as a wizard, I know that there are much more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in such philosophies (to use a cliche).

This hypothesis is given credence in the second diary entry, where Yablonski gives a diatribe about the apple and Death in one paragraph, then the whole rest of the entry discusses politics, and the bother he feels at having to visit his family. Typically, schizophrenic' hallucinations are at the forefront of all their private thoughts. Everything else they think about centers around them.

One would expect that if Yablonski's visions were indeed in his head, that he'd be trying to connect his politics or his parents, to the will of Death, and his own grandiosity. Instead, they seem independent of one another. His thought processes are totally compartmentalized, like you'd expect a sane person to be. As such, Yablonski's delusions seem to more resemble religious or cultlike zealotry than schizophrenia, at least as he reports it himself.

In particular, this "apple" seems intriguingly important, at least to Yablonski. Without meeting the man in person, however, it will be impossible to tell whether the apple is some dark magical item, or merely a normal apple, of which Yablonski's hallucinations are centered in some way. Whichever the case, it is obvious that he is deeply attached to this item, possibly even as a proverbial safety blanket.

That said, here's what we can know for sure:

His obsession with Death, both as a concept and as a figure, is directly connected in his own head with his obsession with order. "Natural selection; that's our kind's only true path to utopia." To Yablonski, the people he kills are as weeds, or rats. They're the object of his obsession, the barrier between things as they are, and what he believes the world should be. As such, he must destroy those who're harming society so, for the sake of his own conscience.

It should also be noted, however, that Yablonski does not seem as concerned with the harm to innocents due to dark magic, as much as he is concerned with what an affront such practitioners are to what he stands for. There are strong nihilistic implications to what he says when he suggests that "If they were better, they would have won," and "The fact that I killed them makes me better than them." He's suggesting that it's not the fact that they hurt people that made them lesser moral agents, but merely the fact that they lost. To lose, in Yablonski's mind, equates weakness, and it is this weakness that is holding "his country" back, not the tangible damage they are causing. To put it simply; in Yablonski's view, might makes right.

 **Advisement**

If Yablonski is indeed a paranoid schizophrenic, then you may have a very strong advantage over him. Though there are several different potions that treat such a disorder, it is often the case that wizards suffering from them are even less likely to accept treatment than Muggles with the same affliction, as there is much more credibility to accept such fantasies in our world, than in the Muggle world. This will make him unstable, prone to extreme vanity. This is already evident in how he fancies himself as Death, some otherworldy, godlike figure, beyond humanity and morality. When strategizing, take this vanity into account. Count on him believing himself invincible, and incapable of making a mistake, while at the same time, not forgetting his intelligence, nor his skill, lest you fall into a similar trap.

HOWEVER - supposing this is not schizophrenia, and that Death (or some other entity) has appeared to him in some form, and that this "apple" was/is some kind of catalyst for this connection, then I'd recommend even more caution. There is no telling what kind of power this artifact may have, or what creature has taken such an interest in him.

It should be noted that I myself have never heard of such an artifact as Yablonski describes, but then again, Defense Against the Dark Arts was always my worst subject. I'd consult a expert on this matter.

* * *

 _As Bishop let his quill rest in its inkwell, his hand cramped from all the writing he'd done that evening. He took a rest to massage it, stretch it, then returned to the scroll he'd just written out. He reread all his notes to the left of him, and to his right he observed the sizable stack of photographs, newspaper clippings, and government documents they'd sent with his package. That feeling he'd had last night, that something was wrong, began creeping back into his mind._

 _How could they just dismiss his request, after all the extra effort he'd been putting in, just to help them, and then throw a bombshell at him that Yablonski might legitimately be mad, with zero context or real frames of reference. They'd given him no testable hypothesis, no rubric, and they didn't even have any notes from this alleged "crack team" on the case about whether or not he was on the right track. Just "good work". None of this was the least bit scientific! How were they supposed to help each other if he wasn't even allowed to compare notes with the President?_

 _Besides, it wasn't as though he was granting them any significant insight. Sure, Bishop reckoned he'd made a few good findings and points, but—_

 _It was then that the siren began blaring out his office window. In the hospital courtyard, men were scurrying into the trees toward the landing strip, and soldiers in platemail, shining from the setting sun were taking flight on brooms, high above the treeline._

* * *

Dear Kim,

i'm shaking like a goddamn leaf thinking about You, and these nice letters You've been sending me. i know You've got only so much free time, Ma'am, and it just makes me so happy that You use it just to visit me. By the way, i still have the cuffs under my pillow, one helluva souvenir from last night's escapade, huh? Shit, if only all men knew how good it could be, doing it like we do, they'd never jerk themselves ever again. Oh well. It can be our little secret, huh?

Anyways, i was just now thinking about the first moment I saw You. Man have You gotten ripped since W/we got here. You were a lil' chubby, remember? Cuddly and beautiful, fresh from boot camp, so i can't even imagine how big You used to be. Now You got as much bulk as i do! All those laps You've been running, pushups, weights, flying, all that hard work's paying off. God, i'm just going crazy thinking about those abs, Ma'am. Let me tell You all about it:

i have a vision, see? Imagine W/we're back at My place, up at the farm. W/we're laying down in the haybales, and You get that evil look in Your eye i just can't get enough of. Taking me by the collar, You lead me toward the hay lift, and tie my hands to the rope. Then, you get yourself the cattle brand from off the wall behind me, use your wand to get the tip nice and red hot, and just tease me with it, up and down my pasty white bod. Near my nipples, cross my legs and my face, not touching me, just close enough I got to keep still, close enough to keep me sweating like a hooker in church.

Then You set the brand in a bucket of water, and hold Your head to my chest, feel it pounding with fear and horniness. Touch Yourself right close to my pecker, make me beg you for it. It's only then you get down to brass tacks, and pull off the bullwhip from the wall, start going to town on me. You make it hurt and good, make me cry, until I can barely stand up.

Finally, you give it a rest, and start spreading that special balm on my cuts, heal 'em up nice. Don't want Your pet's pretty face all cut up, do ya darling? No, but take it slow though. It's sensitive, and the balm stings when you first start spreading it. Take your time on it. Your little boy can take it just

* * *

 _Suddenly, lance's bed shook behind him. he looked, and found Nurse Bradshaw'd taken his bed from behind and abruptly began wheeling him out into the hall, along with all the other patients. Just as he regained his wits, an alarm bell began shrieking in his ears, still sensitive from the deafening silence of the hospital he'd gotten so used to._

" _Let me guess, air raid?!" he yelled, frustrated._

" _Sir, you're gonna be fine," Bradshaw insisted, "We're just getting everybody to the bunker. You'll be all settled in for the night in just a couple minutes."_

 _After an episode of accidental bumps and subsequent apologies, spoken in a frantic tone, they were finally in line for the lift, at the end of the hall. It was at this point that lance's nerves began to kick in, and he grabbed at his side to pick the letter back up. To his shock, his hand touched only wool. As the line continued moving forward, lance began to panic as he felt around for the parchment under his covers and between the mattress and railing, even inside his own hospital gown, but found nothing. Worse, when he checked, he could not find the rope cuffs either._

 _As he, Bradshaw, and a host of other beds, patients, and orderlies packed into the great huge lift downstairs, lance, face red hot, shoulders numb, cursed himself for hoping that the Rockies would take out this floor of the hospital, if nothing else. If anybody ever found that letter with those cuffs…._

* * *

 _[Excerpt from_ Letters to Sister, _Chapter 6]_

September 25, 1994

I had to wait until Elk was asleep to write this one. He wouldn't let me go for days after that first raid. I had to sleep in the same bunk with him and everything. I knew I couldn't complain. He almost lost me. Still, after what happened that night, I needed to get a note out to somebody.

So, I waited until about 3 AM, when I knew for sure he'd be dead asleep, grabbed my scrap parchment, and hastily wrote it out by wandlight.

Amy,

Don't panic, but we had an air raid last night, and that's not even the worst part. We're all in big, huge, trouble, and nobody believes me! I gotta start from the top.

The sirens blared, we all know what that means. The Rockies are coming. So, we've all got to get in the shelters under our tents. Refugee camps are always the first to go, so Elk's freaking out for me, and I'm freaking out for the guys. I still don't know where they all live in this camp, so I'm real scared too. So Elk and me take a deep breath, he holds me tight, and we both count to ten. We get hit and kicked by some guys running, but eventually we get to ten, and we're better.

So then Elk takes my hand and we start running. I hear a whistle and look up. There's some people flying above us, and a fire ray is coming down right at my head. I pull away from Elk as hard as I can, and jump into the nearest tent. It blasts a hole in the ground, leaves some bodies. I still have blood on my clothes from that, sis. Starting to get used to it at this point.

Elk, he's gone now. Stampede of people are flooding the road and he couldn't see me if he tried. Maybe he thinks I'm dead. The ground's shaking and I'm freaking out even more, so I look around. The only guy's still in this tent is Two Bows, the old medicine man. I rush over to him, trying to get him on his feet, but he just keeps pawing at my wand, the old fart. Eventually I give it to him, and he swings it around once or twice. Suddenly, all the beds and chairs fly to the center of the room, and then, flash, he's got a little metal shed inside the tent. I figure it's better than just standing here, so I pull at him some more, and he finally comes with, and we rush into the thing, and we shut the door behind us.

It's dark, right? And Two Bows never gave me back my wand, so me and him are just sitting there on the dirt,while the ground still rumbles, and shit hits the roof. I'm shaking, when all of a sudden, I see a blue light. I look up, thinking Two Bows cast Lumosto calm me down, when it's actually Two Bowses EYES! And he starts talking, only it's all crackly and weird, like he's got three or four voices. Bella said he was born deaf and dumb, so I don't know how the hell he's doing this, how does he know how to friggin talk?!

Anyways, I don't know how I remember everything he said so well, you know I got a crappy memory, but yeah, I remember it perfectly. He saids:

"The one who will avenge the 12th Brigade is here

A killer plots, in his fortress beneath the City of Sin

At the doom of the City of Angels

His whobris will lead him here

When nine moons hence fall, so too will the 12th Brigade

As a tenth moon falls, so too will its avenger

From despised company, he will come from their own ranks

The one to avenge the 12th will come wearing the face of a beast

And never see his home again"

Then he just passed out and left me like that.

After it was all over, and me and Elk got back together next morning, I told him everything while he was freaking out about me "running off like that", and just refused to listen to me. I went around and told every guard I could find, they wouldn't listen either. I even asked to go talk to the Brigadeer General, but everyone says I can't. Even Bella refuses to believe it, and we both asked Two Bows about it, he doesn't even remember doing it!

Amy, this is serious. I don't know what the hell was wrong with Two Bows. I don't know anything about this stuff, but all I know is _something's_ up! It was just like in this one Frontiersman comic, where Tiger Lily gives a proficy. Plus, I remember one time Elk complaining about how he had to take Divination to graduate high school. Could that be it? Was Two Bows seeing the future? I really really really hope not, Amy. The "12th Brigade" is the Brigade we've got here on the base. If it's gonna fall in "nine moons" (whatever that means), that means we're in deep, deep deep deep shit.

* * *

General Leopold Yablonski is property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	9. Chapter 8

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

Chapter 8

"There's a very fine line between disappointment and surprise. Surprise implies you expected things to go otherwise, and they didn't. For instance, I was disappointed in Fudge when he sent Sirius to Azkaban without a trial, but I was not the least bit surprised. I knew before I opened my mouth that he wouldn't listen. Fudge knew, as I did, that if Sirius ever got his day in court, he'd be found not guilty, and we just couldn't have that, could we? Not when the public and the Wizengamot both demanded blood. For all our magic, it seems we are no better than Muggles in this regard. That, my dear Sebastian, is the very soul of disappointment."

-Sherrod Howe

[ _Excerpt From_ Letters to Sister, _Chapter 7: Dr. Bishop_ ]

September 29th, 1994

Best place to start with this one would have to be this one letter I never actually sent. Not intentionally, you understand, it's just I forgot (you'll see why in a bit). I remember I was scribbling on the clipboard we all got for school. By the way, even though I'd been using them for a long time by now, I was still geeking out over getting to use a real quill to write with instead of a pencil. I don't know why, but it made me feel really grown-up somehow. I guess it was because I only ever saw my parents use quills around the house.

Anyway, I'm sitting in a fold-out chair in front of the tent, sun's beating down, and I'm writing another letter to Amy. Here's how it went.

Dear Amy,

Had a good day at school. It got hit hard in last Saturday's raid, so they had it closed down until today, to rebuilt and check for curses. Today we learned how to turn a matchstick into a needle, and a little bit about how to make some basic potions. Talked with Mr Taylor after class about Divination, but he said I wouldn't learn that until next year at least. Plus, he told me to forget about it, that it was fake magic, didn't really work. Told me only creatures like centaurs and fey can tell the future with any kind of accuracy, and even they aren't right all the time. I asked him about profecies, and he was just like "I see you read Frontiersman comics too!" laughing at me.

The guys though, they believe me. Jigs' dad worked for Congress before the war, and told her that the US Department of Mysteries is all about stuff like profecies. Seers are rare, but they exist, especially among the medicine men.

Even Elk finally opened up about how back in the day, we used to chart our years and plan stuff out based on the predictions of Seers, elders, and medicine men. The gift came from father to son, down threw the ages. Then he started whining again about what the white man's done to us, and I just sort of walked away slowly, like we do.

But anyway, we got together, me and the guys, and tried to study this proficy. See what he meant by everything.

"The one who will avenge the 12th Brigade is here..."

We weren't sure whether he meant he's at this base right now, or just alive, or if he meant me specifically, but other than that we figured it's simple enough.

"A killer plots, in his fortress beneath the City of Sin

At the doom of the City of Angels"

We asked Mr. Taylor (didn't tell him why we were asking), and he said the City of Sin is a nickname for Las Vegas, and the City of Angels is another name for LA. "Los Angeles" is just Spanish for "The Angels". This killer, we figure must be Yablonski. Everyone knows his nickname was "the Killer", and who's a bigger killer right now in our world, than him?

So basically, Yablonski planning to take over LA, we all know that already. That's why the base is here, to protect us.

"His hubris will lead him here..."

We asked Elk what's hubris (turns out that's how it's spelt), and he didn't know. So we asked Bella, she didn't know either. By that time, Mr. Taylor and all the other teachers had already gone home, and everyone else we knew were too busy to talk to us. So finally we got around to Father Ken, this priest on the white side of camp. We figured he's pretty smart, so we asked him. Basically, hubris is just when someone thinks they're hot shit. So Yablonski thinks he's bad enough to take over LA, and he's gonna try. Again, everyone kind of knows that.

"When nine moons hence fall, so too will the 12th Brigade"

This is the part we were all freaked out about. If the 12th Brigade falls, then probably the whole state falls, and Yablonski has a good chance of winning and taking us over! "Nine moons", we guessed means full moons, although we're gonna keep looking it up. Anyway, since a full moon happens every month, that means we've maybe got nine months before Yablonski comes and we all die.

"As a tenth moon falls, so too will its avenger"

This is even worse. Just one moon later, the guy who's gonna avenge us is gonna die? Does that mean we'll already be dead by then? How many of us could survive? Would they keep the refugees alive? We didn't come up with any good answers. I hope you do, Little Cricket.

"From despised company, he will come from their own ranks."

So this guy's not popular, and he's a soldier. Well, that's what I thought anyway. Jigs said that "their own ranks" could just mean he's on our side, not a soldier exactly.

"The one to avenge the 12th will come wearing the face of a beast

And never see his home again…"

This is the weirdest part. So this guy who's gonna kick Yablonski's ass for revenge is for sure gonna die afterward. But "come wearing the face of a beast"? The hell does that mean?

I bit my lip, put the quill back in the well, and started scratching under my bandana, pondering and pondering under the afternoon sky.

"Hey, Freebird!" I heard someone calling.

I look to my left, and down the road a ways I see Keen Elk waving at me. Walking alongside him is a guy that makes me look twice, my eyes widen. This man looked for all the world like a giant cat, in a dress shirt, tie, slacks, and lab robes, like Mr. Taylor wore during potions class. He had a tail, padded hands covered in orange fur, and the head of, yes, a cat, plain and simple.

This giant cat's face was smiling at me, and waved along with Elk. As I just sit in front of the tent, gawking, the two reached me, and faced each other.

"Hey man, thanks for walking with me," says Elk, somewhat guiltily, "But it wasn't really necessary. Good talk, but…"

"It's quite alright, Mr. Hataali," the cat replies with a British accent, "I wanted to. You're a good sort to have around, and I daresay I didn't mind milking it a bit."

Elk laughs, softly, and asks about his prescription potion. The cat replies he'll have it ready by tomorrow. They shake hands, and the cat guy doubles back, and turns the corner out of sight.

"That's Dr. Bishop," Elk explained, although I was barely listening

All I could do was just stare down at this Dr. Bishop as he turned a corner around one of the outhouses, and vanished from sight.

" _The one to avenge the 12th will come wearing the face of a beast, and never see his home again…."_

Dear Hannah,

So glad I finally have some time to write to you. It's been a rough couple of weeks. Fortunately, while I'm still waiting on some assistants for therapy sessions, I did manage to acquire some assistants in potion making. Didn't ask for them, but they said they were just there as a consolation until such a time as the assistants I requested can be found. This frees up my time considerably, and so, after taking on one extra patient today for therapy, here I am.

It's harder than I expected out here. So savage, so violent. The stories these men and women are telling me...I thought I was growing accustomed to it (though I didn't want to), but it truly is starting to take its toll now.

For starters, I just had this boy come in yesterday. I won't use his real name, but he goes by his Indian name, "Keen Elk Defends His Land", or just "Elk" for short. He's only 15 years old, but he's got the attitude and hardness of a forty-year-old veteran. He's been through a lot since this war began. His parents were on their reservation's council of elders, and very active in the Integrationist party in Arizona. They campaigned for Shensuken, of course, but also were organizers in the campaigns of several Integrationists to the House and Senate, from their own state.

This, unfortunately, meant that they were away from home often, and half the time their great grandmother and grandfather had to take care of them. Great grandma was from the Hopi tribe, and grandpa was Navajo, or "Dine" as they call themselves. Elk favored spending time with grandpa, wanting to pass on their heritage, while his little brother and older sister prefered to hike and bake cookies with their "mema".

When the war started, and Arizona first seceded, their whole reservation was placed under martial law. They rounded up all the registered Integrationists, lined them up in front of a large hole, and killed every other person, including Elk's father. The rest they tortured for information with the Cruciatus curse. In Elk's case, they put his own grandmother in front of him, and used the curse on her to get him to incriminate other sympathizers. By the time her heart gave out and she died, he was screaming random names of people in town he didn't even know, only heard about in passing.

Hannah...he was only 13 when this happened.

By the time Arizona had been dissolved into the Republic of Rocky Mountains, any Integrationists who weren't already dead, were executed for treason, including Elk's mother. Those on the reservation that remained were given a choice: fight in Yablonski's army, or be sent to a labor camp. It shocked me, and broke my heart to hear it, but almost all of them chose the army. The only ones who didn't were Elk and his siblings.

Thankfully for them all, their older sister, Cricket, just so happened to've been an Auror-in-training when the war started, meaning they were able to escape en route to the camp. They lived on the street and in the wilderness for about a year before finding a resistance movement within Arizona, armed by the Union. Cricket enlisted with them, and together they got Elk and their brother, Freebird, to the California border, and from there refugee status.

So now here he is, 15 years old, having to be the only one to take care of his 12 year old little brother. All the things that come with being a child; schoolyard crushes, worries about grades and popularity, hugs and cuddles and kisses from his mother and father, his grandparents, time with his friends. All of that has been robbed from him forever. He's an adult now, an old man even, in mind and heart. He's so full of anger and hurt, and he's completely alone in that godforsaken camp.

I should have known that it would be like this, and I suppose I did. I just had no idea how hard it would be. Dozens and dozens of stories like Elk's, every day, knowing that all the thousands of people on this base, and the hundreds of thousands in this country, all have similar tales to tell. Help one, shake their hand, lead them home, and three more are waiting for me in my waiting room. But it's that one handshake, that one smile, that one simple thank-you, that's keeping me going. These people need my help; that's all I need. Emphasis on "need". I don't know what I would do if I found myself in this place totally helpless. I have trouble enough sleeping at night as it is.

But I'm sorry, darling. I don't mean to worry you, or burden you. I'll take the bad with the good. Let me tell you now about the good things that have happened since I came here.

Lance is on the mend, in as high spirits as I've ever seen him. A Muggle orphan with Down Syndrome is being treated here as well, after a battle claimed his parents and his home, so they're petitioning to have him adopted into our world, thanks to my stepping up to the BG. Plus, as it happens, turns out healers on base get seconds in the cafeteria, which is a nice bonus. The spread may be simple, but at least I get a lot of it, eh? Hehe.

Also, I am starting to make friends here. Nurse Bradshaw, for instance. She works in the hospital, of course, but she's been in the field as well. Shy lass, but kind. Then there's Private Foxx, one of the All-Werewolf Xray Company. He was drafted off the streets of Sacramento. Turns out a lot of his kind are getting jobs and respect from the government for the first time in their lives because of this war. It's morbid, but I am glad that they're finding some kind of niche. You and I know firsthand how damaging Lycanthropy can be to the psyche, and besides that, I think it's only natural I have had such an affinity for them, first at St. Mungos, now here. Beasts are beasts I suppose, eh?

Lastly, as always, my sleeping arrangements are comfortable, my hosts remain ever gracious, and my thoughts are always on you, my love. Do write back as soon as you can!

Your faithful husband,

Sebastian

September 30, 1994

Son,

It's an interesting state of affairs here at the base. The doctor I told you about, the cat-man? He brought a Muggle retard on base, a (twenty-one year old) orphan. I don't know what he said to the BG, but this doctor managed to get this boy a lawyer, and this lawyer is in New Orleans right now trying to make him a citizen of our world. Disgraceful, I say. God only knows how many orphans we've made these past years. Why should this mongoloid get special treatment? Alas, it is not my decision, nor even the BGs. It's in the hands of the Supreme Court now, to decide what will become of the Muggle.

In the meantime, I had to provide a place for him to stay. Nobody in town wanted him, so I had to find him a place in the camp. Father Ken Jacobs, the camp's resident holy man, volunteered to take him up. As luck would have it, he had a brother with a similar affliction, and of course his bleeding heart compelled him to volunteer, in any case. It is with Jacobs that this boy will stay.

I'll say this straight off. While I do not approve of his being here, it was not the least bit uninspiring to see him take to his new surroundings so fast. This man has a beard, is built like an ox, and is almost as tall as I am. And yet, as I dropped him off, when a group of small children ran past us kicking a soccer ball, I looked back to see him running after them. They noticed, and after whispering amongst themselves, asking him some questions I was too far away to hear, he took to one knee, high-fived each of them in turn, then proceeded to run and kick the ball right along with them.

It's a strange sight, seeing a man frozen in time like that. In his mind, he's as young as these small tykes are, if not a bit younger. The doctor says he's got an IQ of about 45. To put that into perspective, he says the average IQ for a normal adult is 100. Not surprising. He kept fumbling over himself trying to pronounce my name, "Vadim", only to keep asking me what it was. Besides that, unlike most retards I've met in my life, this one doesn't shut up! Always asking me about my jacket, my uniform, wanting to see my wand, and what it's made out of, whether I've ever been to Disneyland, along with whether I've seen this or that cartoon. It was...nice, actually. Refreshing. It reminded me of what you used to be like, when you were very, very small, newly able to talk and ask questions. I recall that I was often too drunk to answer them, but this time, walking with Hank (his name), it was very rewarding to entertain him.

It made me realize just how badly I failed you, my son. I had my own bundle of joy once upon a time, and I left that behind just because I was tired of it. Tired, without ever even engaging in it. Such is the nature of the demon drink and man's own wickedness. My own wickedness. The darkness, which the Ministry opted to keep out of the propaganda reels. To the people, I was Lenin. To you, I was Stalin.

It need not be like this always, though. The Ministry is dead and gone, so neither one of us owe them any apologies. Marx is dead, but we are both still alive. We can have something resembling a life. The Bureau holds your body in Russia, but they cannot take your heart or your mind away from you. And I will not let them keep me from you either.

These past few years, taking care of my daughter-in-law and grandchildren, has been the most incredible of my life. For once I'm doing right by the world, and I don't want to stop there. I want to make things right between us. I know I cannot, but I have to try. I love you too much, my boy. Please write back, son. Just writing this is bringing a tear to my eye, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. You don't have to forgive me, you don't even have to be kind to me. Just give me something, anything of yours, so that I can know you, and confirm that you've been reading these letters, knowing me.

Ever awaiting your reply,

Father

Private Lance's Journal

(Standard Issue - Magical United States of America)

October 1, 1994

Dear Journal,

Shitty day today. Just my luck, the Rockies didn't touch the hospital. I get rolled back to a totally different room for no reason, and day after that, I'm checked out and back at the barracks. Still two more weeks before I can fight. I settle in, and the captain walks up to my bunk, motions to come with him. We walk to his office in HQ, and what's on his desk? The fucking letter. The fucking cuffs.

I thought I was a dead man. Thought I was gonna get court martialed for sure. Fraternization, lord knows what else. He has me sit down, and he says he doesn't give a shit that me and Kim are together. We're in different platoons, and we're the same rank, so there's no one taking advantage of anybody. Just leaves me off with a warning, to cut my "faggot sissy crap" out. Said that if he catches wind of me doing it again, he'll have the whole company beat the shit out of me. Sounded just like dad.

Turned out to be not much of a threat though. Word traveled fast around the platoon, and the guys don't seem to care. They had a good laugh, Jordan grabbed at my dick "just to make sure it was still there", but they're still my boys, they still got my back. Max said Kim was a lucky gal, and Lieutenant Gordon even gave up some of his cigars, just to say "way to go, Kim's a great lay".

I liked the thought, and these cigars are hella sweet, but I don't know how I like him calling her a lay. This girl completes me, man. If it weren't for her, I'da ended it right there in Palm Canyon. All those kids. My damn hands can barely keep still anymore. So damn shaky I'm just used to it by now.

Just got told that she's with her girls right now though. They're gonna hit Rocky further inland this time, take a base near the border, then try to find where they're keeping their Portkeys and take 'em out.

Please Jesus…please keep my Kimmy safe.

October 3, 1994

 **M-United States Department of Defense**

DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY

Headquarters, 12th Mounted Infantry Brigade

Ft. Kelso, California 93420

CLASSIFIED

Operation Moses - Gila Post 10

Post Action Report

 **General** \- The Rocky Mountain forces possess eleven known bases in the state of Arizona, each in possession of Portkeys with range sufficient to transport a platoon up to various (as yet unknown) locations up and down the Pacific Front. The largest base in Phoenix has been designated Phoenix Post 1, and the rest are designated based on both location, and distance from Post 1. Post 2 is the closest to Post 1, Post 3 is second closest, etc.

 **Mission** \- SND of enemy Portkeys in Posts 2 through 11.

Secondary objectives:

SAP of enemy resources, including, but not limited to, wand construction and potion production.

RECON for location of enemy labor camps. DO NOT LIBERATE.

 **Attack** \- At 0200, Platoons 1 and 4 of India Company were mobilized to Post 10, located on the Gila River, approximately 100 miles from Yuma. Three base barracks were neutralized by Platoon 4 via the Bombara Charm, and barrage of Dragonblood flasks, after which Platoon 4 drew the Rockie's fire on the ground. This served as a distraction as Platoon 1 flew in from above via broomstick. After a covert sweep of the information center, the location of the package was discovered, and the package itself was soon thereafter taken, and dissolved off-site with Basilisk venom. Lieutenant Adon of Platoon 4 reported the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED at 0445.

Enemy Casualties - 41

Friendly Casualties - 4

Civilian Casualties - 0

 **Soldier Report**

India Company Platoon 1, aka "The Howdies"

1 LIEUT Randolph Phillip - 1 confirmed kill

PVC Arnold Maroue - 1 confirmed kill

PVC Edgar Adams - Located and transported the package, a pizza platter

India Company Platoon 4, aka "The Witch's Tits"

PVC Kim Duggery - 21 confirmed kills, wounded in action - critical

1 LIEUT Kyle Adon - 9 confirmed kills

PVC Gretta Good - 5 confirmed kills, killed in action

PVC Sef Albert - 3 confirmed kills, killed in action

PVC Amy Nathan - 2 confirmed kills, wounded in action - serious

PVC Dory Gibbs - killed in action

PVC Audrey Teller - killed in action

 **Damage Report**

KIA (Letters of condolences to follow)

PVC Gretta Good, age 19. COD: Killing Curse

PVC Dory Gibbs, age 21. COD: Burned alive while under the effects of a Full Body-Bind Curse

PVC Sef Albert, age 23. COD: Crushed by fallen barrack wall

PVC Audrey Teller, age 25. COD: Killing Curse; suicide while under the influence of the Imperius Curse.

WIA

PVC Amy Nathan, age 18. Bombarda charm by friendly fire.

Injuries: Disintegration of left foot, plus minimal shrapnel to the surrounding flesh on the leg. Stable condition.

PVC Kim Duggery, age 22. Transfigured into a duck, then stomped on by enemy soldier.

Injuries: Broken thoracic vertebrae, collapsed lung, and internal bleeding. CRITICAL CONDITION

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	10. Chapter 9

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

Chapter 9

"I can scarcely believe how much of a difference just one person can make in this world. Who knows where any of us would be if Ms. Potter had not survived that fateful night? Where would the United States be, had Arnold Hoffman and his family decided to celebrate the Fourth of July somewhere else?"

-Sherrod Howe

October 19th, 1995

Dear Diary,

Another assistant came yesterday. Bailey, from New York City. She was a babysitter before the war, and I swear, for being so old, this woman has the patience of a saint. Since she was also a social worker before she retired, and the patients seemed to like her, I decided to take Bailey up on her offer, and let myself sleep in this morning. She took care of the sessions.

Amazing how they've already managed to get me four therapists in less than three weeks. I would have been satisfied with just one! I suppose they consider me a good investment. Wonder whether other bases are adopting similar practices? Just how common was Lance's case? How many lost their marbles before him, who weren't as lucky?

Ah, but listen to me. I ought not be so glum. Easy to do, listening to some of these poor folks, reminded everyday of the bloodshed, and worse. But I have to accept the good Lord's blessings wherever I can find them. Bailey is an excellent start. Jordan, Galway, Preston, and the lab boys too. They took a few hours of instruction, but mostly I was just plain fortunate to have such qualified people. I have a good operation going on, and I have to remember that.

Let's see, what else?

Oh, how could I forget? Guess who's staying on base right now? Arnold Hoffman, and his wife Clemence!

I remember I was leaving the hospital to get some lunch, when I hear a projected voice over the air, coming from the direction of the barracks. I see a large group of soldiers walking in that direction, so I follow them there. Can't imagine how busy I've been that I didn't notice this, but there are posters and flyers all over every tree and billboard that Mr. Hoffman is making a speech today, here at the base.

He and his wife went back and forth, using the Sonorus Charm to project their voice to the crowd of thousands which had gathered. It was a very informative speech, and very inspiring as well. Turns out, General Juliani, the head of the US forces on the Pacific coast, has been making a lot of headway into Idaho and Montana, and setting up forward camps inside Rockie territory.

That wasn't what the speech was about, however. Most of the speech was made up of some personal anecdotes of what he's seen and done since the war began. Turns out he and Clemence have been everywhere speaking against Secessionist atrocities. He's spoken to governments in Britain, Canada, Mexico, all over Europe trying to get them to invest in war bonds here. One thing he says that has become clear to him in that time, is that the world is on the Union's side.

The Secessionists are the clear aggressors in this war, and they all know that. Seeing as how you can count on one hand the number of wars wizards have fought with each other, this is rightly seen as a great threat to our world, and the world has answered their call to duty accordingly. Even now President Shensuken remains in talks with the Gringotts National Treasury Board in New Orleans and the Seven Dwarven Families of North America, to lend their hands to the defense of the MUS.

On Clemence's end, her overall message was simple: do not despair. Like all of these soldiers, she's lost people too. She lost her entire extended family, all of her friends, and even their pet dog, in the Dakota Incident. All she has left is her husband and their little girl over at Hogwarts. She said that in their darkest hours, know that she could not be more grateful that they are laying their lives and their sanity down on the line, for her sake. She said it inspires her every day to keep pushing on.

All in all, it was an exceptional rally. Both of them have an amazing way with words, just speaking from the hearts. I'll confess, their hope is astoundingly infectious.

Anyway, I was just on my way back on track, noticing my hunger all the more, when I happened to run into Major Rumi. At first I thought he was asking after his next appointment (I've been handing him off to Galway since he first started at the hospital), but in fact, he was looking all over for me. The Hoffmans were just about to take lunch with the base command, and I was invited. I couldn't imagine why, but he called me "The Brigadier General's pet project".

….

I only just got it. The bastard.

Well whether that is what he meant by that, he said I would be a welcome sight, and it'd be a good opportunity for me to report my progress so far. At the time I thought I had an hour until my next appointment, so I accepted his invitation.

So, figuring he had a good point, I went with him to HQ, where a nice little spread had been prepared in the Brigadier General's office. They had ribs, corn on the cob, beef brisket, peas and carrots, fried potato cakes, hot dogs and chili beans; typical American fare, but extremely good. They serve the same stuff down in the cafeteria, only this was much fresher. I figure they must use the Doubling Charm on food like this, then serve the copies to the men. Would definitely explain the blandness.

Anyhow, I was my own shy self at first, until Arnold addressed the (almost literal) elephant in the room about my appearance. Mind you, he was very polite about it. He actually mistook me for an Animus, which was a new one. I asked him what an Animus was, and he told me they were animal humanoids who could take the form of humans.

I laughed and told him no, that it was Polyjuice Potion gone wrong, and he in response gave his condolence. Just when I was going to thank him and tell him it was ok, Clemence pipped in and said she thought I was better off this way - "cuter" than most men. I'll be honest, if that had come from any other woman, I would have been heartbroken (if there's one thing I've hated more than being called a freak, it's being called "cute"), but the way she said it was just so sincere and innocent, I couldn't help but take it as the highest praise.

The lunch went on rather normally after that, with me being mostly silent and listening. Most of the talking was done between Hoffman and Rumi, about what Arnold will be doing while he and Clemence are on base. Most of it will just involve him being himself, spending time with the troops, occasionally building tents and bathrooms in the refugee camp, taking photos and interviews with various radios and newspapers, that sort of thing.

Meanwhile, it turns out Clemence has been ahead of her husband, working over at the school for a couple of days now, teaching about the history surrounding the war, as she's made her speciality, along with whatever else she'll find interesting. I gather all that matters is that they make themselves seen around here; I bet their presence alone is enough to raise morale.

I told them so, and Arnold could only laugh and blush at the thought.

"That's the General's plan," he said.

After lunch, we broke off in front of the HQ building, the Hoffmans called me over, and we chatted some more. Arnold asked after my name, said that it sounded familiar to him, and I told him about my book. From there went on about my political activism back in Britain, and they seemed impressed by it.

Then, just as I was about to say my farewells, Clemence snapped her fingers, and told me she had an idea. Her first lecture of the day was in a few minutes over at the school, and she suggested I come have a Q and A with the class. I could teach them about what Britain is like, and have that springboard into a discussion about diversity. I almost told her I couldn't do it, as I had appointments soon, but then I double checked my pocket planner just in case, and was reminded that thanks to my new staff, I didn't have any appointments for another couple of hours. I'd misremembered last week's schedule as this one's! In that light, I told her I'd be happy to join her.

It was my first time inside the school, and I was impressed to say the least. For all the cut corner's they've made in the hospital and office buildings, dusty and with dry rot in some places, it seems they spared no expense in the schoolhouse, although it is quite small.

We were teaching middle schoolers, so I kept the initial opening speech simple, after Clemence's introduction. To summarize what I told the class: the Magical Congress is a democratic republic, whereas the Ministry of Magic in Great Britain is a meritocratic bureaucracy, with a democratically elected legislature, the Wizengamot. The Magical Congress has two houses, the Wizengamot only one, and it also does the job as the Supreme Court does here in the MUS. After that, I took questions from the class.

Most of them were rather obvious and boring (except for the story about how I changed of course), such as whether schools where the same in Britain, who our "president" was, that sort of thing. The only one that really stood out was, "What do they think of Indians in England?"

I was of course rather flumoxed by the question, and told him frankly that we didn't have them in England, although I did tell him that in wizarding Britain, race doesn't really matter, so most people would see Indians here as they would anyone else. I told them in Britain, what people really care about (if they care to judge at all) is blood status. That got a stir out of the class for sure; most of them didn't even know what that meant. When I told them, they looked at me like I was a moron.

"What does it matter if someone in your family is a Muggle?" one kid asked out loud.

"Yeah, Muggles can be pretty cool; look at all they can do without magic!" another yelled.

I'll admit, it warmed my heart to hear that little girl say that, and that there seemed to be an agreement on this point.

I told them rather frankly that all cultures have had their own bigotries, their own prejudices. Every society has deemed one or another group "the other", and used that as an excuse to subjugate them, to gain power over people. And I told them that just as they all thought some British folk were foolish for looking down on Muggles and those of Muggle lineage, most countries thought Americans were just as foolish for mistreating their Native peoples. Some looked offended at that, but most looked like they'd had an epiphany. That same girl in the front row even gasped. I laughed at that, and smiled over at Clemence, and she smiled back.

It was special little moment, that. You just don't see smiles likes hers around these parts. I hope she'll tell me her secret; the world definitely needs more smiles right now.

* * *

Dear Aaron,

How's the new comish, captain? Just heard about it, and I'm really proud of you for it. I wish you were here so we could celebrate, but I'll make a deal with you. I've got leave tonight; I'll go into town and get myself, hammered. When you get this letter, go do the same, and we'll be square? Haha!

Anyway, same old same old on my end. Most exciting thing that happened was the Major came in and demanded I take that leave. Apparently I've been sending low-priority mail to the wrong people. Not a breach of security or anything, just annoying. I told him I haven't been getting much sleep lately, and he just shrugged and was like "That would do it then, eh comrade? Pretty boys do need their beauty sleep, don't want you to get cranky and scare the birds away." Friggin Russie.

One cool thing that did happen today, the Hoffmans moved in! I doubt I'll get a chance to be around them, but they're here, helping out on base! I even got to hear Arnold and Clemence put on a rally earlier, it was pretty fun. Besides, it was just great to see they're still out there. Hard to think that these two are the reason why our baby sister is still alive.

I'll admit, man, what's more hard than anything is the fact that I haven't even seen her once since before the attack. Her letters are all that keep me going some days, and I can't even be there for her. And unlike some guys, I can't even have the satisfaction of killing the assholes that got us here. Not complaining, just...yeah.

Write back to me soon, ok? I miss you, and it's been forever since we've talked. I know you must be busy, but just saying.

Love you, brother,

Blaine

PS: Looks like "Birdbrain Blaine" is here to stay. Not too bothered by it anymore though. I guess they're all calling each other dumb nicknames. Most of them seem to like me ok, when I'm not messing up their mail, hehe.

PPS: You didn't hear this from me, but I've found the fucker. He's in Yablonski's personal guard in Las Vegas. I saw his face myself on the front page of the _Republican Times_ , out of Nevada; contraband being sent to the furnace on base. Thought you should know. I am holding you to our promise.

* * *

Dear baby sister,

I won't waste time. I'll get it right out there. I love you. I never stopped loving you, even if I'm probably dead to you by now. You have to believe that I didn't know the 42nd would go and do that. Everyone says they're heroes, but I never thought so. I'm glad those assholes are dead. Just writing that could get me executed where I'm stationed right now, so believe me when I say that I am sorry. I should have taken you with me when I left. If I'd had known it would go this far, I would have.

One day, when the war is over, I'm going to do everything in my power to bring you back home, and finally make it up to you. I'm going to set the record straight, tell you what Aaron and Blaine never would. By the time this war is over, I know in my heart you'll understand that. I'll write it all down, give you the letters once we see each other again. Then I'll take care of you, I'll show you that this whole war has been a mistake, and that for all the lies you've been told, the truth is I'm still Sean; I'm still your big brother, who you grew up with, bathed with, who let you sleep in my bed when you had nightmares. I'm still that person, and I always will be.

Ok, now that that's all off my chest, I'll try to explain where I'm at right now.

I've finally settled down into a post. Finally getting to rest my head on something other than dirt ground for once. We've got a shop at the citadel that sold supplies, and among them were some diaries, so I bought myself one. I'm not much of a writer, but I figured that you need a record from the other side; all future generations need to hear the whole story. I remember my history teacher once told me that history books are based off of journals and documents, so I figured I'll participate in that. For your sake. So you can read this and see what really happened.

I've had 18 confirmed kills so far, and a lot of my higher-ups have died, so after a couple of years, I've been moved up and hand-picked to work at General Yablonski's citadel in Nevada, his personal guard. I've met him in person, and it's obvious that so much of what those Yankee assholes print are lies. He's not some maniac, he's a clear-headed, rational general with a plan. He's harsh, but it's all to keep order while we're besieged on two fronts.

Besides that, whenever he's not in a war meeting, he's charming, friendly, he's always smiling, always giving people compliments and assurances. He cares about people, his people especially. He takes every death just as seriously. He wants this war over just as much as any of us do.

They're calling us Secessionists, but we've been beyond that for two years now. The Secessionist revolution is over, and we've won it. We have our independence now, finally. I am not a Secessionist, I am a citizen of the Republic of Great Plains. I am not a rebel or a terrorist, I am a soldier in the armed forces of the sovereign Confederacy of Denver, in the service of one of her generals. I have just as much honor as Aaron or Blaine, and believe me when I say, I have no intention of giving up my freedom, just because some chink in a suit tells me to roll over, and take the politically correct bullshit he's shoving down all of our throats.

You'll see, baby sister. I know one day, you'll see I'm right.

Love, sincerely,

Cor. Sean Kane,

Proud Serviceman of the Denverite Armed Forces

* * *

Dr. Bishop,

Please find enclosed your next case packet. We've also found a number of photographs of Yablonski for your assessment, wherein he seems to be holding something close; possible this dark object, this "apple". We agree with your theory that this dark object may influence Yablonski's behavior in some way, and would like you to proceed forward on that assumption.

As for your inquiry in your last report, let me make this abundantly clear; you are not a scientist. You are not writing a research paper. You are advising the president, and nothing more. That is what you have agreed to, and this is what you are going to do. We're not going to discuss this again. Anything you send us from here on out that isn't directly related to the character of Yablonski will be shredded and ignored. Needless to say, you will continue to share this correspondence with no one.

Sincerely,

President Timothy X Shensuken

* * *

September 9th, 1989

The work continues. The President finalized my promotion last night, making it official. I am the youngest Head of Investigations, in MUS history, complete with a badge and official robe. How quaint.

A shame about Wilson, though. Poking his nose into McGregor's case where he shouldn't have. Oh well. That's nine more names I got to add to the book. And nobody's the wiser. There *was* a lot of dwarven blasting jelly at that warehouse. Once the spells went flying, it was only a matter of time before they went up in smoke. All the more fortuitous for me.

I've made sure to accommodate my men, of course, on their missions, so it's not as though anyone could point fingers at me for being there. No one ever has. Not even that snoop Cambridge has any inkling about the plan. First Severus Snape, now me. For an Auror of her credentials, she's a very poor judge of character.

Or...perhaps that's too harsh. It's not as though she and I are friends, any more than with any of the other men. There are those in the office that are even starting to call me "Killer" when they think I can't hear them. But when I call, do they listen? When I have a criminal cornered, and I say to finish him, do they deliver? You bet they do. It's better to be feared than loved, and my record speaks for itself.

Since I gained my commission two years ago, arrests have skyrocketed, along with justifiable uses of the Killing Curse. Crime rates are steadily declining, and everyone knows who's to thank. It's a fine start, to be sure, although there is still a long way to go. Not as far as I thought before, however.

The polls are in, and they've been speaking loud and clear. The Integrationists' power grab is paying off. More than a quarter of the seats in Congress are up for grabs, and come November, Shensuken will almost certainly be elected President, much to the uproar of Libertarians across the nation, to be sure.

There've been more and more race riots as Shensuken has gained more and more momentum, and many of his supporters in the Progressive party are being axed off, by a professional nonetheless. Curious, as most of these assassination attempts have been done with Muggle explosives. Curious indeed; whoever's doing this is a professional. I have people looking into who he might be, and depending on what I find, he may make a very nice addition to my notebook, or he might make a useful ally.

Chaos is on the horizon. The garbage of this country has finally started to clog the street drains, and flood this country. Eventually it's all going to come to a head. The Secessionist movement isn't fringe anymore; more and more Libertarian officials are coming out in favor of it, should Shensuken's NACRRA come to pass.

None of this could have come at a better time, of course. The deadline's been set perfectly. As Head Investigator, with the reputation I've made, I have all the access I need to every Representative and Senator in New Orleans, from the head on down. There are friends to be made out there, and flames to fuel.

As I gaze into the apple's reflective surface, a blood red crystal ball, I'm met with a vision of a more beautiful future; the Valley of the Shadow of Death. It shows me a nation reborn, a nation cleansed and clear. As long as this gift from destiny, this simple fruit never leaves my side, my heart will be hearted against whatever's to stand in my way, and I will be unstoppable….

* * *

 **Assessment**

It's clear by this entry that Yabonski has set his goals since the beginning. He anticipated that the Secessionists would make good on their threats, and says in no uncertain terms that he became Head Investigator because it gave him access and power. To see that he's succeeded in moving up the political ladder to where he is now, demonstrates a foresight and tactical mind well beyond my own comprehension. There can be no doubt that this man is a genius, and therefore profoundly dangerous.

Again he mentions the apple again, it seems more and more clear that it holds a special place in his heart, regardless of whether or not it's actually magical. He accredits it to all of his success. What's more, this passage in the diary entry further shows Yabonski's worship of Death, both as a figure and a concept; he sees the Valley of the Shadow of Death, from Psalms, not as an obstacle, but as some glorious future. No doubt he sees himself as succeeding in this realm as well. I can find no better metaphor for what I've seen and heard of this war, than that. Even if he himself is not the cause of this war, he still benefits from every death he causes, both in a terrestrial sense, and a spiritual one.

The apple itself seems quite unextraordinary. Photo 5-A has the cleanest, clearest image of it, with the fruit sitting at his desk, beside a stack of papers and an inkwell, which does well as a size reference. From this, we can estimate the apple as being about three inches in diameter, small enough to comfortably fit in the pocket. It's therefore not implausible to suggest he carries it with him everywhere.

 **Advisement**

Whether the apple is truly a dark object or not, it still remains the anchor point for Yablonski's delusions of grandeur. If you truly wish to cripple him, my advice to you would be to find and take this apple. If it is the source of any of his prowess, you've essentially crippled him. If it is not, you still make him open to being more erratic, and thus more likely to make mistakes. Either way, nothing good can come from his continued possession of this apple.

* * *

 _Just then, there was a knock at Bishop's door. He'd been so focused on what he was writing and how he should write it, that the noise made him jump in his seat, with a small startled yell._

" _Dr. Bishop, are you alright?" It was Mrs. Ranken's voice._

" _Ah, yes yes, sorry," Bishop sighed, "Had a bit of a fright there. Not your fault, I'm just a bit skittish by nature. Come in, come in!"_

 _The door creaked open, and inside stepped the tall, muscled mistress of the house, in orange robes and a purple apron, with dashes of grey in her dark brown hair, tied up in a bun._

" _Dinner's on the stove, should only be another half hour," she said, smiling._

" _Ah, lovely, thank-you, Mrs. Ranken. Er, was that all?"_

" _Oh no, sorry, almost forgot why I came in," she rubbed her forehead, "You've got a visitor at the front door. She says she's an Auror, has a badge and everything."_

" _An Auror?"_

 _The fur on the back of Bishop's neck shot up, anxiously. They never picked up the packet like this before. He'd always just put it in the right cubby at the Owlery. Where they coming to check up on him? Could they've suspected he'd been talking to Sherrod?_

" _Uh, did she say her name?" Bishop asked._

" _Oh yeah, sorry probably should have said right away," she said, laughing again, "Cambridge. Janna Cambridge."_

 _Bishop shot straight up in his chair._

" _Oh goodness, yes yes! Uh, send her in, please? It's a private matter, you see. Very, very private, will only take a minute, thank you very much, Rachel," he said frantically, all in one breath._

 _Mrs. Ranken shrugged, and left the room leaving Bishop fuming in his seat. Sherrod_ swore _that he would tell no one, and he told an_ Auror _?! And not just any Auror either; he told the woman who started this whole mess? The woman whose family Solomon Kinney had targeted directly?!_

" _Dr. Bishop?_

 _Bishop's gaze shot up from his lap back at the door. Standing in the doorway was a woman Bishop could have initially described as "imposing". She was tall and lean, with shoulders a bit on the broad side, a white dress shirt and purple dress pants underneath a dark brown robe. Her hair was long and blonde, tied into two braids which hung over either shoulder, braides that, in Bishop's view, were not unlike how some vikings wore their hair. After removing her brown fedora hat, Bishop saw her face much more clearly, and as professional as her expression was, there was a deep softness in her large blue eyes; a gentleness._

" _Second Sergeant Janna Cambridge," she spoke with a distinctly Scandinavian accent, "Auror, Muggle Relations Division, and by extension, officer of the MUS Special Forces. At your service, Doctor."_

" _A pleasure," Bishop replied, forcing a smile, "Second Sergeant, is that your Auror rank, or your rank as an officer?"_

" _Both," she sighed._

" _I see," Bishop nodded, "Would you like to sit down?"_

" _Yes, thank you."_

 _She briskly walked over and took her seat on the nearby ottoman, as Bishop leaned back into his swivel chair._

" _So…" Bishop started, apprehensively, "What are you doing all the way out here, Sergeant?"_

" _Well, to make a long story short, I ticked off the wrong people doing what was right, and got demoted for my trouble. I went from a field agent and a captain one day, to a desk jockey the next. Then, to add insult to injury, they station me at the Bakersfield office, right in the eye of the goddamn storm."_

" _Ah, I'm sorry to hear that," said Bishop, "But what I meant was, what are you doing_ here _, in Kelso?"_

" _Sherrod sent me."_

" _That I figured out," Bishop sneered, "So much for not telling anyone."_

" _I wouldn't be so hard on the old man," she said, placatingly, "He sent me to help you. Your little pet project with the President? We have reason to believe it's not what it seems."_

" _I figured as much," Bishop bit his lip, "Am…I in danger from this?"_

 _"This is war, Doctor. We're all in danger. All the same, however, something_ is _fishy alright," she paused, pondering a thought, "Tell me, do you still have the letters Shensuken has been sending you?"_

" _Aye," Bishop nodded, then reached for them on his desk, "They told me to burn them after I'd read them, but Sherrod said not to," he handed them to her._

 _She took the first letter, and scanned it with her eyes, more than once, then did the same with the second letter._

" _First red flag," she said, "Is that I'm able to read these letters."_

" _Oh?" Bishop leaned forward._

" _Standard operating procedure is that all classified documents and letters be treated with a special Disillusionment Charm, that prevents any but the intended recipient to read it. Both sides_ have to _use this charm; if they didn't, American owls would have been driven to near extinction by now."_

" _They seemed like normal letters to me, although they did_ say _to cast the charm on the case documents once I received them. But...why wouldn't they do that themselves, if that's protocol?"_

" _Why indeed? Might be because we have to keep records on all classified documents; we use special department wands to charm them, and check them regularly with a Reverse Spell. Again, that's standard procedure, and it's vital to maintaining transparency between the three branches. If someone didn't charm these documents themselves, it means someone didn't want the Magical Congress to ever know about this._ That _is illegal."_

 _Bishop gasped._

" _They….they made it sound like this was just a normal advisory position."_

" _I'm sure they did, Doctor," she said, with a sympathetic tone, "I know you didn't mean to do anything wrong, and maybe you haven't. Don't worry, you're not in this alone by any means."_

 _She stood up, folded the letters, and tucked them into her robe._

" _I'm going to do a little digging, if you don't mind, and find out what it is the President has to hide."_

 _Bishop took a deep breath, then nodded._

" _It was a pleasure meeting you, Sebastian. May I_ call _you, Sebastian?"_

" _Certainly, madam," he replied, with a gentle smile._

" _Oh, Janna will do just fine," she smiled in return, putting her hat back on._

 _She then turned toward the door, then stopped just when she reached it._

" _Oh, by the way," she said, turning her head, "Thank you so much for helping Don. You really are working wonders with him."_

 _Bishop was taken aback, "Don is with you?"_

" _For now, yes," she smiled, "He's a good boy. I'm just glad he's got so many people looking out for him."_

 _With that, she stepped through the doorway, and quietly closed it behind her._

* * *

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Arnold and Clemence Hoffman are property of littlebityamelie

General Leopold Yablonski is property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata

Janna Cambridge is property of Event-Horizon-Indigo


	11. Chapter 10

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

Chapter 10

"Afraid? My dear Watkins, that was just a nasty spot of bother. In fact, I'd put it to you that nobody knows the true meaning of fear; not until they've loved another more than themselves."

-Sherrod Howe

October 21, 1994

Dear Nick,

Finally got your last letter and set the record straight with Birdbrain Blaine down in the Owlery. We shouldn't be having that problem again, so don't worry. Anyways, Krysten wrote and said your teachers are all really liking you so far, and you're finally passing Transfig. Great that you're staying out of trouble, bud. Keep it up!

Hope they're getting you good and ready for Halloween. What're you gonna dress as? Make sure to send me pictures, ok? (Maybe some of that candy too, if you know what I'm saying, haha!)

Anyways, life has been more or less the same as it was last time I wrote you. Arnold Hoffman's staying on base for a while, but he hasn't come round to see us yet. Terry's doing a lot better than he was after last month; been making goo-goo eyes at one of Doc Bishop's therapists down at the hospital, and taking a prescription Draught of Peace at dinnertime, so between those two, he's recovering pretty damn well. He knows we're all here for him, you know? Which is really great, man. I was scared for a while that he was gonna clock out early, know what I mean? Like poor Jane did last year, or Matt Padre after her. Out here, your own mind can be every bit as fucked up as things get when that moon goes full.

Now I know you like my war stories, and it does help to get some off my chest (can't be throwing no pity parties when my boys are depending on me), so I thought I'd let you in on how the other night went down. It was pretty fucked, for sure.

Full moon was the other night, right? One helluva thing this time. I guess we're doing better than we thought against the Rockie's wolves, because we didn't see a single one. No, instead, they're sending fucking zombies and shit our way; even a few trolls!

Well ok, they're not literally zombies, they were inferi (we'd be fucked if they were real zombies, I only learned that difference after). It was fucked up though, man. Because we were raiding this warehouse just south of Vegas, right? Looking to cut off their supply lines, and this one was like the whole throat of Yablonski's operations, know what I'm saying? That's why they saved it for the 99th.

Just as we're hulking out, these assholes make it look like the place is abandoned. They flee the joint, even leave the gates wide open. None of us are really all there, even with wolfsbane, so like morons we run right in. At first we got the gate house and the administration buildings all cleared and held, so it looks like we've got it easy this month. Then we get to the holding cells, the warehouses, we all open them at once, and these gray fuckers just start pouring out, foaming at the mouth, screaming, groaning, running like Speedy fucking Gonzales up walls, into each other, falling, some of them even crying.

By then they start getting their hands on some of us. Every window, every corner, every closet, the mud, the rocks, had dead fuckers running out.

Jones went first, I think. I saw four of them rip his arms and legs from his body, then start chowing down. Once he turned back human, I knew he was gone. He wasn't the last though. Even though, by the end of it, most of us were still around (they trained us for this shit after all) at least a half dozen of us bit it. That's as bad a mission as I've ever seen, even if we did accomplish the mission by the end. They told me that there ended up being close to two hundred inferi in that place, all against about eighty werewolves. We may have mostly lived, but none of us walked away unscathed.

Every single guy and gal in the regiment has a broken bone, an infected bite; more than a few even lost limbs. All that other shit they can fix in a heartbeat down in the clinic, but growing back limbs? Fuck dude, I know how bad that sucks. They had to grow my foot back after a bad skirmish last year. It'll make a man out of you, let's just say that. Skelegrow's awesome and such, but seriously, fuck Skelegrow, hehe.

Sorry if I sound laid back about this. It was a fucking trip. Two of the guys that died was even in my own platoon, Dan and Dave, the twins. Those guys were my friends, man, and they're gone, and….I guess I just got to shrug it off. It's not scary anymore, if it ever even was. Who knows, maybe monsters just can't be too scared of other monsters, know what I mean? Either way, I'm just doing my best to survive out here, same as always. Just be glad the most you've seen of this war so far is my letters, alright? All I'm saying.

Love you, little brother. Write back soon, k?

Signed,

Randy

* * *

October 31, 1994

Dear Hannah,

Happy Hallowe'en, darling! (hehe, I'm writing this just a few minutes before midnight, so I can still say that).

It's good you've settled into your new job with Dumbledore's lads. I bet the ladies down at the shop are really impressed by the both of us, to say the least. Interesting that, of all things right now, he would just be having you watch some shack. Although I am sure he has his reasons, of course. At least you're not alone in this. It makes me very glad to hear you're making friends. Silly thing to worry about, I know, given the circumstances, but, well...you know me. It makes me upset ever thinking of you alone. The fact that you're not is no small comfort, in this place.

That said, I'm starting to make friends as well. I've got a sizeable operation in the hospital now. Two healers, experienced in psychological trauma, seven nurses, to oversee all of their potion treatment, five of my own personal potion-makers, a secretary, and all in our own small wing that they sprung up for us. I'm seeing more patients than ever, and with much less of a workload. By this week, I suspect I'll have it down to a point where I can get in some more sleep, which will be a breath of fresh air, eh?

They're not the only ones, though. Apart from my new staff and my patients, Arnold, Clemence, and I have continued spending time together (as you can tell, I'm on first-name basis with them and everything!). For the past few days, Clemence has been making arrangements with various spots around the base (the mess hall, hospital, all the barracks, some shops and centers in the refugee camp itself, etc) to arrange a trick-or-treat event for the kids down in the camp. Arnold was able to whip up some simple masks on short notice, and of course filled out some forms in the kitchens to have some sweets made. We took them, distributed them about all the spots, and let the kids have their fun.

The three of us even tagged along with Freebird and his friends for a while, with the Hoffmans developing quite a bit of an entourage of little ones as we went. I can't imagine what it must be like for them, having that level of reverence. Besides that though, I'll admit, it was a splendid sight to see, all those kids running around in their masks, under the light of the lanterns, filling up their pillowcases and backpacks with candy; it was nostalgic, and just plain heartening. These kids haven't had the chance to be kids for so long. It's easy to start seeing this base as a kind of prison after a while, even if they're all here for their own safety.

Now, however, with the soldiers being so accommodating, and Kelso having its own trick or treating going on across the road, the camp almost seemed like an extension of the town itself. After all this is over, I have to wonder if that may be the case one day. The kids may get new homes in time, but the adults have scarce anywhere to go.

If nothing else, I'm glad that people like Clemence are out here, doing what they can. You should see her, Hannah. She's quiet, shy, yet she somehow manages to fill an entire room with her presence, and all the kids love her. She's almost like everyone's mother. Tonight she kept going on about the "scary" additions the kids make to their masks, and lets them know how impressed she is at all the candy they get. And she does it all so serenely; her persona is almost dreamlike. You can tell she's not just humoring them, she really means it.

She goes perfectly with Arnold, even if he's to the other end of the spectrum. He's a much louder and prouder kind of chap, always looking like he's having a helluva good time. He made a full-sized mouse costume for himself (complete with fake buck teeth), and then he cast a shrinking charm on his voicebox, so it could be high-pitched like he'd inhaled a helium balloon! It was the most adorable thing I'd ever seen, seeing all those kids gathered around him, laughing, with Arnold acting oblivious as to what was so funny. I always assumed he must have been playing some part during that rally he put on, but no, that passionate way of talking is how he actually is in real life.

On one hand, it was a rather bizarre sight; this revered, famous 36-year-old war hero, dressed up in a fluffy polyester mouse costume with a squeeky voice, going on like a birthday party clown. But on the other hand, just seeing how happy he was making all those kids, and how happy he himself was doing it, knowing what he has gone through, what he went through in North Dakota. It's inspiring, to say the least. I suppose in my line of work, in this time and place, legitimately happy people are a rather rare sight.

These two really were made for each other. Made for this country too. I reckon if we've got folks like these on our side, we're going to be ok. Or maybe that's just the effect they have on people. Either way, it's enough to give a man hope.

How about you, darling? Tell me how you've been spending your Halloween? Is following Albus' lead everything you've hoped for so far? I hope so. And tell me about who he's pairing you up with. You said his name was Diggle? I've heard stories about him. Over here they'd call that kind of fellow a "boy scout", I believe, haha! Do tell me all about him, though.

All my love,

Sibs

* * *

[ _Excerpt from_ Letters to Sister, _Chapter 7]_

The revelation about Dr. Bishop was almost too much to take in, and we wasted no time in trying to warn him personally. We tried everything we could for days to go see him, but they told us there was a list, like a five month wait or something. We tried again to go see the Brigadier General, or anybody with access to her, but as soon as we got to the part where we got this info from Two-Bows, who didn't even remember telling it to us, we were sent away. This happened multiple times, with various different soldiers, before we had it in our heads to not even mention Two-Bows. _That_ ended up landing half of us in the brig for "divulging false or unsubstantiated threats against the Magical United States". Elk had to bail us out, and we were all left off with a warning. Needless to say, Elk was furious.

"Do you hate it here that bad, dumbass? Do you want them to throw us in jail, or send us back to fucking Yablonski? Bla bla bla?" Ad infinitum, for a good three days afterward.

So having exhausted all our options, and having given Lil Cricket as much info as we could, we kind of just had to put our minds at ease however we could. We went back to work, focused on our homework, and half-convinced ourselves after a while that I must have just imagined the whole thing; dreamed it, hallucinated it from shock, dozens of different explanations. Me though, I never really forgot. All I could do was play along, for all our sakes.

Thankfully, our job at staying in line was made a whole lot easier come that Halloween. That's the set-up for this letter. I wrote it to Cricket the next evening, after school, and sent it with a handful of Botts Malted Milk Ball packets (her favorite candy).

* * *

Happy Halloween, Cricket!

I know my last letters have been hella depressing and scary, so I wanted to start off happyer this time. You were right, before, nobody does believe us. We weren't even able to see Docter Bishop, let alone the Brigadeer General! And we'll be in trouble if we bring it up again! So I guess it's all on you, until we can figure something out. Here's some malted milk balls to snack on while you try to make something work.

Anyways, I figure you want to know how our Halloween went, so here we go:

There Jigs and I were, throwing around this frisbee Elk had bought us with our chore money, when Hunter runs up to us wearing an elephant mask, the kind with the nose charmed to actually trumpet when he wants to. He asks us if were going trick-r-treating tonight. This is the first either of us have heard it, but we catch on pretty fast, and naturally, we're really syked to hear about it.

There's this one place right in the center of the camp, just a assemblee room that Father Jacobs has his sermons in every Sunday, and Mr and Mrs Hoffman was handing out Halloween masks for free down there. I go and ask Elk if it's ok with him, and he says of course, as long as I'm back at the tent before lights out.

So Jill, Hunter and I, grab our pillow cases and head out. Sure enough, when we get there, we see Big Mike in the crowd. Lil Mike is riding on his shoulders, and Jigs holding hands with him (gross, right?). They'd been waiting in line for a while I guess, so we got to go way ahead.

It still took us like an hour to get to the front, and at first it was really boring, but while we're waiting Big Mike started up a game of I Spy. Whoever got the most right by the time we got to the front got to keep all of his candy at the end of the night. He said he has diabeeties, so he can't have candy anyway. By the time we were up next, Jill ended up getting the most right (of course the nerd girl wins, haha!), but it turned out ok, since she ended up sharing Mike's bag with the rest of us anyway. It was a good time killer at least.

Then that's when it got a little freaky.

All 6 of us finally got to the front of the line, right? Mr. Arnold was dressed up like a big rat, while his misses just had on a purple dress, some fake horns, and some goat face paint. There were guards on either side of them, beside the big boxes of masks, and sitting in one of the fold-out chairs in the audience, writing in a book...was Dr. Bishop!

All the guys look at me, and we freeze. Mrs. Clemence asks, "Is something wrong, children?"

And Mr. Arnold just nudges her with his shoulder, and motions towards the doc, who then lifts his head up to check us out.

"Oh hello, Timothy," Bishop smiles (still weird that he doesn't sound that much like a cat), "Or, I'm sorry, do you prefer Free Bird?"

I tell him I go by either one.

"How's your brother? Is he doing better?"

I tell him yeah.

"Well I best not keep you. I reckon the Hoffmans need to move that line along, eh?"

All of a sudden it hits me again to just explode and tell him about Two-Bows, when one of the guards comes in and sees us. It's the same guard who told me to back off last time.

He says, "Sorry, Mr. Arnold, I only just recognized that Injun kid. He's not bothering you guys, is he? Overactive imagination this one." Then he gives me the evil eye.

"No," says Mr. Arnold, "He's just catching up with the good doctor here. Don't worry, kids. This is just Sebastian, the base syke-eye-atrist. He's just a guy, like anyone else here, he just looks a little different, that's all."

The doc gave a big smile at that, and so did I. So when the team all ran to the boxes, looking for their favorites (except for Hunter of course, he got one already), that's when it hit me. Something important.

Half of these masks were animal masks.

"He will come wearing the face of a beast."

Who the hell knows if that's literally? It could literally end up to be anyone who decides to wear a mask "in nine moons". It doesn't have to be the doc.

It made me more relaxed the rest of the night, but it still doesn't answer any of our questions. And it doesn't change the fact that we may be getting attacked soon, and nobody believes me about it.

Anyways...we ended up having a really great time trick r treating. Father Jacobs gave out candy, and so did some nurses at the front of the hospital, some guards in front of HQ, the quartermaster at the hippogriff stables, Birdbrain Blaine up at the Owlry, and basically every tent in the camp; we met a lot of guys, and there were a lot of kids running around.

After we'd visited about 2 or 3 places thoe, the Hoffmans and Bishop caught up with us. I guess the line all died down, and they were just bumming around camp. I was embarrased at first, because Lil Mike immediately shoved his candy bag in Mrs. Clemences face going "Look, Mrs. Clemence, look how much I got so far!" But she didn't seemed bothered, she just laughed, wrustled his hair, and acted blown away by how much he had (even thow we all had the same amount). Then Mr. Arnold pointed at Hunter, and went like "Heya Barbar, let's here that horn of yours!" And that got Hunter to give 'em a quick "toot toot" (not a shy group these guys, hehe). Yeah, the Hoffmans seem kinda dorky, but they are super nice, and everyone does love 'em to death. Hard not to, after what Mr. Arnold did up in North Dakota.

Anyhow, one last funny storry before I rap this letter up.

We all got our masks, right? I picked a dragon masks, since they all had steam coming from the noses, and changed it from red to green with my wand. Jill just asked to borrow my headband and borrowed some red facepaint from Mrs. Clemence, and said she was Tiger Lily (yeah, I know, not cool, but whatever, at least she didn't do the voice, or the fake warcry), Jigs went simple, with the black cat mask, Big Mike went for a gorilla mask, and Lil Mike picked the clabbert mask. Turns out he used to have a pet clabbert before the war. Weird lizard-mokey things, ever seen one?

Anyways we'd just gotten to one of the tents, and yelled "trick r treat!", when all of a sudden, an actual clabbert hops out, holding a basket of butterscotch candy. He takes one look at Lil Mike up on Big Mike's shoulders, licks his lips, bares his fangs, drops the basket, and runs up Mike's clothes to get at Lil Mike. Before you know it, Lil Mike and this clabbert are running circles around Big Mike's shoulders, up and down his shirt. We all start cracking up and before long, Big Mike runs backwars into this big tub where some other guys are bobbing for apples, and fell in. After rubbing their heads for a second, the Mikes were laughing just as hard as we were!

So yeah, Lil Cricket. It was a really fun night, and we all got a lot of candy. Sucks thoe that we all have to go back to normal tomorrow, and sucks even more if I wasn't just seeing things that night. I'm starting to think maybe I was, but I just can't stop thinking about it. If there's even a teeny tiny chance that what I saw was real, not a dream, then don't we have to fight hard to stop it anyway? Tell me what to do about it, Cricket. Tell me what I can do to help and I'll do it for sure.

Love you so much,

Free Bird Tim

* * *

Her reply came about a week or two later. I'm pretty sure this is the second letter she ever sent to Ft. Kelso. If I'm wrong, I'm certain my kind editor will sort it out later (take note, Stephen m'boy, stay awake for this part).

I remember that day, because it was that same morning that someone stole my Halloween candy. I was so careful in rationing it, hiding it, making sure to savor every last bite. Then one day, I go to my usual hiding spot, and it wasn't there. I never found out who took it or why, but I was pretty damn miserable that day. I ended up failing a pop quiz at school, got roped into laundry duty with Elk (which was always my least favorite chore), and Jigs caught down with food poisoning, so she wasn't available to play. All in all, shitty stuff.

Then we get back to the tent, we get our mail, and boom, Cricket sent both of us letters! And as it happens, this one ended up motivating me to keep going with doing what I could about this prophecy; what convinced me I wasn't crazy. Here's what she wrote:

* * *

Dear Freebird,

I'm glad you had a good Halloween. I wont' tell you how mine was (you've seen too much violence already), but yeah, wasn't so fun, hehe.

Still trying to get some guns like you suggested, but no such luck. Doubting any of these guys could even fire the damn thing if they got one. I only know how because I took the Auror elective class. Definitely a good idea though. Catch Yablonski by surprise, maybe! [wink]

Now about this prophecy you saw, I definitely think you're right. If there's even a 1% chance if it being true, we should be treating it like it's a 100% certainty. The fact that those dumbfucks ain't doing nothing but giving you shit about it is friggin bananas. Though I guess it figures. Who's gonna trust some bush-nigger, much less a kid? That's one benefit to being in the resistance. We're all cherries here! [wink] Haha, and word's getting around about it too! Guess what Yablonski is calling us in the papers. "The Red Resistance". Started out as an insult, but some of the guys are starting to take a liking to it, myself included. Sure, I don't care for being called "red", but shit, you have to admit, it is a name that inspires fear.

"The Red Resistance; liberty forever, segregation never!" Has a nice ring to it, eh? Definitely may look good spray-painted on an alley.

Anyways, if the soldiers aren't going to help, and neither is your brother, then I guess all you can do is prepare yourselves and your friends. Assume it's going to happen, just like you said, then look around, get the lay of the land, find an escape route, and if the time comes and it does happen, get as many people as you can out of there. Don't fight, don't be a hero, just run.

That said, keep this between your friends, you and me. I need you safe and sound for as long as you can be there. If that means playing along with their stupid games, then just button your lip. You fulfilled your duty by trying to warn them, it's not your responsibility what's going to happen by them not listening.

Most of all, remember that you're not alone over there. It's not just me that believes you. My whole unit does too, and between all of us, we know a lot of the higher-ups of other units across the Pueblo that would come at a moment's notice to help us out. When the time comes, we'll be in the area, ready to pick you guys up.

So let your pals know, and make sure all the other Indians in that camp know too, the Red Resistance is on the front lines out here, and we have their back. Just keep holding out, little soldier. Just like Pop always told us, "Stiff upper lip."

Nu'umi unangwa'ta, Free Bird Flies High.

Always your big sister,

Little Cricket in a Big Field

* * *

" _Private Duggery, are you certain about this?" asked the old Nurse Andy._

" _It's my birthday for two more hours, isn't it?" Kim chuckled in reply, "Besides I feel fine, just a little tender is all. He'll be gentle."_

 _Andy bit his lip, taking one more look around to make sure nobody was looking._

" _Alright, ma'am," he nodded at last, "I'll send him in, and we'll be square, right?"_

" _You got it, boss," she winked, smiling, "You're a good kid, you know that?"_

 _Andy smiled meekly, then turned the curtains around her bed as he walked off. After a couple of minutes of shuffling outside, the curtains parted, in walking little Lance, with a bottle of coconut oil in hand. His face looked alight with excitement, although his eyes were red and puffy._

" _Evening, ma'am," he said, suddenly remembering to stand at attention._

" _At ease, soldier," she replied, bowing her head, then cringing a bit._

 _Lance cautiously stepped forward, and took a knee at her bedside._

" _The ribs?" he asked, frowning, "Or your back?"_

" _Nah, they had those fixed in an hour. What hurts like a bitch right now is my guts. There's scar tissue, they had me take something to get the splinters of bone out of my lungs, and they're having to regrow most of my liver. Thank god for magic, that's all I'll say. I'm thinking if a Muggle found me, they'd put me in a body bag. Either that or take me to market. I guess I was a duck at the time"_

 _She laughed, then winced again, harder this time. Lance was frozen where he knelt. He couldn't stop himself from scanning her with his eyes, her body totally bandaged from her chest to her knees._

" _It's fine, though," she clarified, "They told me today I'll be out of here in a couple days, at most."_

" _We don't have to go all the way with this, if you're not up to it," Lance insisted, "It's more than enough just to see you."_

" _Aww," she smiled warmly, "Come here, little boy."_

 _Lance got back up, leaned carefully over her, and she pulled his head into a soft, prolonged kiss. When they parted, their lips were still brushing lightly against each other._

" _Shhhhhhh," she whispered, "This is a cold, lonely, depressing place. I need my special little guy at my side right now. One hour, to make me forget about the past month."_

 _They both smiled at that, and her hand began to slowly, yet forcefully, pull his hair into a vice grip. As he gasped, she pulled his head to the side, and pressed her lips to his ear. Her voice was now lower than a whisper._

" _Besides… if you know what's best for you, you'll do what the fuck I say, now won't you?"_

" _Yes, Mistress," he gasped, his toes curling in his boots._

" _Now, you're gonna be My good little boy, and give your Mistress a nice, gentle massage." It was not a question._

" _Yes, Mistress," he was moaning now._

 _She kissed his earlobe, giving it a small nibble before She let him go._

" _I love you, pet," She sighed._

" _i love You too, mistress," he replied._

 _he then stood, took a deep breath, looking down on his Mistress, Her eyes now closed, Her lips curled into a soft smile. All of a sudden, lance felt infinitely more relaxed as he pulled his wand out from his robe. Softly, he dragged the wand from the top of Her body to the bottom, and the bandages melted away with it, into thin air. While She laid bare, still as relaxed as ever, he gave his wand a swish and a flick, and She was hovering, stiff as a board, several inches into the air. With another flick, She was flipped face-down, before slowly floating back down on the hospital bed._

 _Every inch of lance's skin was a-tingle now, and his face was red-hot. With hands slightly trembling, he put his wand back in its place, and began lathering his hands up with the oil. As he finally got started, his Mistress could only mew and sigh where She lay, knowing she was in the best of hands._

* * *

Dear Mistress,

Just a note for when You wake back up.

i'm still aching and shaking from the noises You made tonight. It was the greatest joy pet has had in a long, long time. Finding all your sensitive spots, still tender from your wounds; not enough to hurt, just enough to tingle. Now I know how You must feel when You do it to me.

Even as frustrated and out of breath as i feel right now writing this, all i can think about is how happy and thankful i am for having You to be with; being able to touch You all over again for the first time in more than two months. Life is uncertain out here, and in the midst of all this bullshit, You continue to keep me sane.

i'll be going to sleep now, thinking of your toes in my mouth, my fingers running up and down your coconut-scented thighs, belly, ribs, nips, and neck. And now that i said something, i reckon You will too.

Love You forever,

Your little boy lance

* * *

Arnold and Clemence Hoffman are property of littlebityamelie

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	12. Chapter 11

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

Chapter 11

"What was Voldemort's greatest weapon? What truly made him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? It wasn't the killing; Grindelwald killed several times as many across the entire world, and nobody fears _his_ name. No, what truly made Voldemort feared, was fear itself. This is what his Dark Mark embodies; hopelessness, terror, loss; the perception that he could not be stopped, because he had already succeeded. To this end, he killed every scrap of humanity inside himself, and turned into a raw force of nature; a cancer, an earthquake, a forest fire...a war."

-Sherrod Howe

November 5th, 1994

 **PRIORITY MAIL: Amanda Duggery-Luvhaug  
1990 Mark Twain Circle  
GRASSVILLE, CALIFORNIA **

Dear Amanda,

Lance is all better now, and so am I, thanks for asking. I'm glad the kids are doing great, Chris' Halloween costume was hella badass, I literally can't believe he knitted it himself! Like, you meant he knitted the beard too, right? Tell Chris that his Aunty Kim is goddamn impressed (those exact words, don't be a pussy, haha!). And with his glasses and all, he made one helluva Dumbledore. Glad that that little zippity dorkus has some direction to point his pent-up energy towards (told you he didn't need no potion, just an outlet). I'm just surprised that he pulled all that off without magic.

Anyway sis, thanks for sending me that photo. It was exactly what I needed to snap me out of some really, really, really bad shit. I've had a horrible couple of days since getting back out of the hospital. They threw me right back into the field, with the rest of the gals. After the last assault, they ended up promoting me to Specialist. Apparently I was "instrumental in the success of the mission". My ass-cheeks I was, but whatever.

My first mission back was pretty easy to guess (there's only like three to choose from: search and destroy, search and rescue, and "strategic appropriation of possessions", or as I call it "stealing shit from Rocky"). It was an SNR mission into Arizona, to liberate a labor camp, one of the last ones in the state. Platoon 4 (that's the actual name for the Witch's Tits) and Platoon 1 all had to fly down to the border with Mexico, then take a portkey into this stretch of desert (I'm not allowed to say where exactly). Then we had to walk into the sand for about four hours in steel goddamn breastplates, dig up some different brooms, and rode those a few miles north, before finding the damn place.

After all of that, we started getting shot at. Amy got hit right of the bat, got cut right down the middle with a curse. I thought she was a gonner, but somehow she lived, even after we found her hours later. We had to take her to the hospital with a garbage bag taped to her to keep her fucking guts in, but they said she'll be up and at 'em by morning. Just can't believe, for all our magic, we had to bring her back to base held together with nothing but a fucking garbage bag. Fuck man...

Sorry, back to the story.

We all flew in, dropping dragonflasks as we went all around the perimeter, and blasting through the air resistance, although there was barely any. We had them outnumbered 3 to 1. By the time four or five of them fell out of that sky, they went running. Same when we got on the ground. Five more girls got wounded, but none of us died. Hella Rockies died though. Any of them that lived through the initial assault, we zapped. No prisoners. That scared most of them off, I guess.

The compound itself was pretty basic. One HQ, one barrack, a fence with a few towers, a broom runway, and the factory. This is when things got fucked. Totally. Fucked.

It was a potions factory they were in. All men, about 8 through 40 years old, wearing ragged striped pajamas, all sitting at long-ass tables, cutting ingredients, boiling in cauldrons, pouring, like clockwork—like they were machines. They were all glassy-eyed, sitting upright, some of them with missing fingers, some of them with huge-ass burns, mangy hair, rotten teeth. I could smell literal shit and piss and vomit, I figure they must have been covered in it.

That wasn't even the scariest part. The scariest part was when Nora started poking this one kid in the back, because he wouldn't respond to her. That's when we all started doing the same thing, trying to get everyone out of there. They wouldn't budge, they wouldn't even stop working. It didn't take a genius to figure they were all under the Imperius curse, but I didn't think about it farther than that. I thought I could snap them out of it by just getting them away from the table, so I took this one little kid, no older than 10. I picked him up while he was mincing some kind of eyeballs, and made a run for the door.

Before I got him halfway there...Amanda, he stuck himself in the neck with the knife, slit his own throat. I just stood there, him bleeding out in my arms, and he looked like he was starting to snap out of it, just as he was dying. He looked around, started crying, tried to talk, but it was too late. I was all numb, and I dropped him. Then I turned back around, just staring into space, while all the other gals were staring at me.

Lt. Adon started freaking out, and ordered us all to cast them all in the body-bind curse and haul them out. As soon as Kyle cast it on one of them, the guy to his left smashed a glass bottle on the table and slashed the bount one's throat, before going back to staring at me. The potion from the bottle was all over him now, burning him and leaving boils, and he didn't even pay any attention to it. Just smiled at me, with that same glassy stare. He looked just like a mannequin.

Then, all at the same time, they finally stopped working, and turned slowly at me, with these horrible smiles on their faces. They talked to us.

"These men are prisoners of war, held in trust for the Republic of Rocky Mountains. General Yablonski will have his due, one way or another. This is your only warning."

Then they went back to ignoring us and working.

There wasn't nothing we could do. There weren't enough of us to curse them all at the same time. All we could do was just sit and make sure none of the Rockies came back with backup. It wasn't until morning that our own backup came from Platoons 2 and 3, and they weren't here an hour before the Rockies came right back. This time they outnumbered us. We had our orders, though. Take the camp at all costs.

Lucky for us, we were dug in like fuck by then, and of course we had a ton of potions on hand. It took us most of the rest of that day. We had nine of my girls die, twenty-seven wounded, including the Lieutenant. Somehow, though, we made it, and they pissed off again.

We made it….most of the factory didn't.

They looked like they were trying their damndest to avoid the factory, but there was a ton of explosive shit in there. All it must have taken was one stray curse to blow the whole thing up. Not long after that, I think the Rockies just gave up. For all I know they were actually winning, I haven't even heard the debrief yet. All I know is, there were almost 80 prisoners in that camp. Only 12 made it out alive.

And the worst part? None of that even mattered. We held the camp, so they declared the mission accomplished.

Don't they care about those guys? Those kids? All those sons, husbands, papas? All the people we were supposed to save? I guess not. It was all bullshit. All that fuck they fed us in orientation. Truth is, we're the only ones who care.

And to tell the truth, it took me a while to even get to that point. Before I got your letter today, I had it in my head that nobody cared. I think I needed that letter, just to remind myself that I'm not doing this for those fucking big-whigs at HQ. I'm not doing this for Shensuken, not for anybody but you guys. People are out to kill you, or to make your lives really shitty, so I have to stop them.

That's really what this is about for me. Making the world a better place. Because god knows it's shitty right now. Me and Lance are gonna kill every last Rocky we find, then we're gonna go move into my place in Wheatland, Lance can cook in the restaurant, I'll finish that hen house like we talked about, and we're gonna have a life goddamn it. Fuck Yablonski.

Anyways, thanks again. I hope this gets to you in decent time, little sister. Tell Christopher and Andrew I said love you, and tell Chris good job for continuing to not be a dumbass. Mainly, just keep up the good work, taking care of our inheritance. I think about the family business every night, all the ideas I have of how we're gonna make it better. Just keep those home fryers burning, ok? (Sorry couldn't resist, hehe).

Lots of love,

Kim

* * *

Dear Rachel,

It's Sean again. I just turned in for the night. It was a slow patrol around the city, and I have a lot of time to think. There's some things that I wasn't sure I wanted to share with you, but I feel like you need to hear it, if you're gonna understand why I left, and how you've been lied to, especially about our parents and General Yablonski.

I never wanted to leave you, Rachel. I was driven away. They treated me like a bag of garbage, just because of what gender I loved. I came out when I was 9 and you were 6, and they told me that if I ever told anybody else, they'd send me to a foster home. They said they didn't want me "to be a bad influence on you". Then, the next day, they acted like the conversation never happened. I was heartbroken, my own parents thought I was some kind of freak, and they wanted things to just go back to normal? They refused to even bring it up again, and scolded me when I tried.

I don't know how much you heard or understood of the fight I had with everybody the night I left, but the jist of it was, them siding against Secession was the last straw. It was bad enough they taught me to hate myself, but now they were traitors to their own country, my country. They never gave me a reason to be loyal to them, it was always obvious to us that Aaron was the favorite son; Blaine and I? We could just as well rot in a sack.

So I told them I was enlisting with the North Dakotan army, and I wanted Blaine to come with me. He didn't see it that way, we argued, and that was the last I saw of any of them. They didn't even let me say goodbye to you. More than anything else, I don't think I'll ever forgive Mom and Dad for that.

If I'd known that the 42nd would go rogue like that, I would have taken you with me. All that stuff you've heard about the 42nd being martyrs is just a talking point for the politicians to spout. Everyone I know thinks that they were wrong. Their mission was to hold the towns peacefully, and use force only to quell everybody if they had to, not to hold a massacre! They were a freak accident, almost none of us are like that. Now, I'm gonna set the record straight.

I managed to sneak a peek at the contraband locker the other day, and found some Unionist propoganda, a flyer with "facts" about General Yablonski. It's all garbage.

First of all, there is no black book of death he carries around. The general takes death seriously, not like some sport. He's always telling the troops about the responsibility we as soldiers have, having to take lives. He knows how horrible war is, and he'd never make us do it if he wasn't willing to do it himself. That's why he conducts the executions that he sentences people to; he's not some psycho, he doesn't enjoy it, he's just not a hypocrite, forcing us to kill others when he's not willing to get his hands dirty.

And he certainly doesn't execute people for jaywalking, like that trash says. He executes the same people the Union does; deserters, spies, saboteurs, rebels. These are criminals, people who pose a threat to the freedom that Denver is trying to defend and uphold, the freedom your chink fatcat of a president flushed down the crapper, just for the sake of some Indians. They've been holding this country hostage for decades, and Shensuken is their puppet. They started this war by driving families and towns like ours apart. They gave us a booklet back in North Dakota that tells it all; I know once I read to you after this is all over, you'll understand what a joke this has all been. Real quick, I'm gonna transcribe my favorite passage that sums it up perfectly:

""Where in the confederacy were Natives not allowed to acquire a high school education? Where were Natives not allowed to intermarry with other races? Where in either Republic were Natives not even allowed to leave their reservations? Not a damn one! All these things, instead, describe Kentucky and Tennessee, both of which have remained with the Union!

"The only thing that makes us different from the Indian practices of any other state was that here, we believe in letting the *towns and cities* decide for themselves how to handle the Indian problem. We allowed our schools, if the parents wished, to train our students to be racially and culturally aware of the inferiority of the Indian races, and the burden of of whites, blacks, and asians, to civilize the red man, that we may all survive as one wizarding world. For this alone, President Timothy Shensuken stipulated in his bill, just as harsh penalties for us, as for the fascist villains in the ex-Cheerokee nation, the so-called "Progressives".

Look it up, sis, this is real! You'll believe it when I finally see you again. I know it.

November 6th, 1994

Dear Rachel,

Got the short straw yesterday afternoon. I had to join the patrol around the city. It's a decent temperature this time of year (some of the local boys and girls are wearing their jackets, not us Great Plainers). Still feels weird having to wear these Muggle clothes, just when I was getting used to the North Dakotan uniforms, but I guess we're all one army now, so it's no big loss.

It definitely was boring today though, big time. By the end of our shift, all those casinos looked really tempting, let me tell you. Not that they'd let me in, I don't think. The gambling age in Muggle casinos is either 18 or 21, I can't remember. Either way, I guess I'm out.

Wasn't all bad, though. I caught a glimpse of a…a cute fella.

Gosh, it feels weird actually writing that out. Reading it out loud. Finally being open and accepting to myself. I even told someone else about it, just in a fit of excitement just now, and they just shrugged. They didn't sneer, they didn't laugh. They didn't call me a sissy like Dad would have. Nobody cares! I saw a cute boy!

I saw a cute guy

I saw a cute guy

I saw a cute guy

I saw a man I was attracted to

I was attracted to a man

He had brown hair and was fit and had cute blue eyes and I got butterflies just by looking at him!

I waved at him, he waved back and smiled and his smile was so cute!

I saw a cute guy!

 **God it feels so good!**

Phew. Got that out of my system.

After patrol and dinner, something interesting happened. I was offered a little bit of extra rations as overtime if I could stay up with General Yablonski in his office. I've seen a lot of the general since being stationed at the citadel, but I hadn't gotten the chance to say hello formally, one on one. The most he said to me before last night was a compliment on how well made my living space was during morning inspection. This time, though, it would just be me and Lieutenant-General Michaels; I'd guard the door on the inside while Private Barron guarded the outside, and they'd just play a game of chess, chat, have some wine. So it was much more personal than before.

So there I was, standing at attention for about 20 minutes while they went back and forth. I counted: in that 20 minutes, they both only moved two times each. Then, the general turned to me, smiled warmly, and called me over. Surprised, I hesitantly did so.

"At ease, private," he ordered, still cheerful.

I obeyed.

"What's your name, soldier?" he asked.

"Sir, Kane, sir."

"How about your first name?"

I was taken aback, "Oh, um, Sean, sir. I mean, sir, Sean, sir!"

He chuckled, "Relax, Sean. You can drop the formalities for just a second, this is my time to relax, not bark orders. How old are you, Sean?"

"Seventeen, sir."

"Seventeen? So your were only fifteen then, when the war started?"

"That's when I enlisted in North Dakota's 18th Regiment, sir. Once the Free States were dissolved into Denver, I was sent out here, got stationed with you after I—"

"After you survived the Battle of Big Hole River. I read your records just before you came in tonight. Very impressive, Sean. Just wanted you to know that it does my heart good knowing men and women like you are down here. There's been so much treachery lately with the Resistance and all. Good help is hard to come by, no?"

"I suppose so, general. It's been very rough the past couple of weeks. A lot of guys have died out there in the desert."

Just then, Michaels spoke up, sneering.

"What do you mean by that, soldier? You complaining about having to defend your country?"

"No!" I clarified, "No, Lieutenant-General, I—"

"It's okay, it's okay, "the general assured, "Terrence can be a bit overzealous. He's exceptionally loyal as well. Sometimes to a fault," he looked at Michaels sideways, with a cross look in his eye.

"I understand, Sean. Our people's sacrifices can't be understated. It's a travesty, the nightmare you soldiers have had to go. Families lost, lives ruined. I saw in your records that your parents were...were at Belview when the 42nd went rogue."

I perked up at that. "Went rogue." I hadn't heard a higher-up use that word before to refer to the 42nd.

"Yeah...we weren't close, but…"

"I understand, Sean. I lost my own father in this war too. Maybe my sister and mother too, in a way. They're in Washington, probably never want to see me again," he took a sip of his wine, and sighed, "It's not going to be any easier, Sean. Having to live in the country you're saving. Not for any of us. In some ways, for those of us fighting, the war won't ever truly end, just like the grief for our parents won't ever really go away. That's why it's all the more important we stick together, be there for the person fighting beside us. When it comes down to it, they're the reason we fight, and why we die; so that others may live."

Rachel...if that sentiment doesn't make you realize that everything that they say about Yablonski is a lie, I don't know what will.

November 7th, 1994

Dear Rachel,

Something's wrong. Michaels. He's gone off the deep end. Or maybe he was never all there, I don't know! But I have to do something! I have to tell someone! The general, I have to tell General Yablonski, as soon as he gets back I will! Got to be calm. Got to explain.

What happened was this:

That cute boy I saw the other day, that Muggle, turns out I drew too much attention when I….ogled him I guess. He thought we all looked suspicious, so he followed us. Then he started snooping around the casino, checked into the hotel, until we caught him pawing around in the boiler room near the entrance to the citadel.

Thing is, the general left this morning to go out in the field, so Michaels is calling the shots. He didn't know the kid was a Muggle yet, none of us did, he thought he was a Unionist spy. So what does Michaels do? He calls me up to guard the door while he interrogates. "Door boy" he called me. Bastard.

We're keeping him in the boiler room still, trussed up and handcuffed to one of the pipes. Immediately he starts cracking wise, and it's clear English is not his first language.

"That's a funny accent you got there, friend," Michaels says to his face, "Where do you come from?"

"I come from my mama, friend. Same as you, yes?"

Michaels slaps him, the kid just giggles.

"What country, dipshit?"

"Ahh ahh, I am, 'ow you say, a citizen of the world!"

He slaps him again. This time it looked like it really hurt.

"You got a name, spy? A rank? What was your mission here?"

"In zis order: Noah, freelance photographer, and adventure. My lover calls it ego, I call it a masochistic zense of heroism. More romantic zis way."

Then Michaels takes out his wand.

"We found your camera, alright. I have a guy developing the film right now. How long has the Union known our location?"

"Ha! Sadly, I am not unionized, sir. Like I said, I'm freelance, my own master, as it were. I followed ze ginger over zere on my own. He's a wanted man in Montana, you know. Suspect in a shoot-out near Big Hole River, fled ze scene down ze highway and disappeared. Should 'ave known he had friends. What are you boys, eh? Italian mob? Russian, Irish? By zat armor, I'd guess 16th century Spain. Out hunting ze Aztecs, huh Cortez? You're a bit too far north for that!"

Michaels started blankly, and raised his wand.

"This is your last warning, punk," he said coldly.

"Ah ahh, now he's pulled out ze stick! I suppose I'm in for a spanking, now?"

" _Crucio!"_

Instantly the kid started screaming, loud enough that I had to cover my hears. He started writhing and shaking in his binds, convulsing and tensing up, pulling on his handcuffs so hard I was sure he'd break his own shoulders. Then, after five or six seconds, Michaels gave it a rest, leaving this Noah kid shivering on the ground, his hands almost purple from pulling.

"Wuh...wuh...what did you do?" Noah asked.

"What is your rank," Michaels ignored, "What is your mission? How many of you are there in the city?"

"Fuck off!" Noah screamed, "What ze fuck are you?! What is zat thing?!"

Then Michaels notices that Noah has a black phoenix tattoo on his left arm. Noah flinches as he traces the black lines on his skin.

"Nice ink," says Michaels, "What's this underneath it? Scars? Yeah...burn scars. _Corium inflamari_."

I hear a sizzle sound, and Noah starts screaming again as Michaels keeps pressing the tip of his wand, now glowing orange, to Noah's arm. After more long seconds of this, and of me biting my lip at it, Michaels pulls his wand away. There is a small flicker of flame on his wand tip, and now he's waving it in Noah's face, now extremely pale, sweating. He looks completely terrified now.

"Don't like fire, do you, spy?" Michaels laughs, "I bet there's a story in that. We'll be getting to it soon enough, I reckon. We're going to chip away at you until we find the information we want, then we'll delete your existence from this earth. There won't be anything left of you to send back to the Union."

"WHAT UNION YOU FUCKS, I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

Noah's on the verge of tears. I can't take this anymore.

"Hey, what if he's telling the truth? What if he really is a loner?"

"He knows our location. He was able to get past the Confundus charm on the door! He was—"

Just then, the door to the citadel opens up. Jenkins runs in, with an envelope in one hand, and a backpack in the other.

"Lieutenant-General, sir!" he exclaims, "I have the developed pictures from the prisoner's camera right here."

"How dare you!" Michaels bellows, "In the middle of an interrogation!"

"You said to come to you as soon as they were finished, sir, and this is important!"

"Spit it out, then!"

"They're Muggle photos, sir. They don't move at all. He's only got dollars and euros in his wallet, no wizard money, and he had no wand in his pack. Lieutenant-General...this man is a Muggle!"

Michaels stared blankly, almost going red in the face, "Jenkins….who was on guard duty in the boiler room last shift?"

Jenkins gulped, then said, "Fess, sir. Private Fessbander, I mean."

"Bring. Him. Here."

We wait a couple minutes, and Jenkins fetches him. Fess looks even worse than Noah as he stands at attention.

"Fessbander, is it? Are you aware that the Confundus charm on the door has to be revitalized at the end of every shift?

Fess gasped, "Suh...sir, no sir. I hadn't been on guard duty up here before, and I—"

"You see that? That is a Muggle who waltzed right in here because you neglected to cast the damn charm on the damn door."

"Oh God! I'm sorry sir! Please please, I'm sorry sir! It won't happen again, I swear!"

Michaels grips his wand, shaking his head. Slowly his hand goes up, pointing his wand more and more towards Fess's chest, as he gets down on his knees now, still begging. Jenkins says nothing, but I can't be silent.

"Sir, please!"

" _Avada Kedavra_."

The whole room fills with green light, a sound like nails on a chalkboard ring out, and Fess falls down. Dead.

Michaels puts his wand away….and pulls out a little black book from his jacket. He writes something in it, and he just says,

"Delete."

I have no words.

"Jenkins," Michaels says, "Take care of the body. Door boy," he turns to me coldly, "Can you perform memory charms?"

I still can't talk, so I simply nod.

"Ahh. Looks like it's your lucky day, Mr. Noah," he smiles wickedly, looking back at him "Give him his things back, and throw him back on his ass."

I nod again. The two leave, leaving me alone with Noah.

"Muh...memory charm?" he asks, wearily.

"Yup," I nod, leaning down, "Trust me, handsome, you're better off. Don't worry, Michaels won't get away with this."

"But why? Whuh...what are—?"

" _Obliviate_."

End of story. I swear Rachel, you'll see. I'll tell the whole story to General Yablonski, and he'll hang Michaels for sure over this. Then you'll see. He's good. This was wrong, and he'll see it. He'll see it. He'll see it. He has to see it.

* * *

Dear Alice,

Just a note to let you know I am doing fine. I know you are worry, lover, but it is ok. Las Vegas is not so scary and dangerous as they say, just a little smelly and hot, haha.

America treats me nicely, thank you for asking. The bread is too sweet, and the sodas too big, but there is a lot of opportunity here to have a good time. Dance clubs, casinos, pools, dunes, lots of things! Plenty to take pictures of too. It's only a shame that I seem to have forget to put film in it yesterday, urg! Lots of pictures lost! Oh well, I still have enough to sell. I will keep food on the table at least (the magazine already payed for my air fare).

Just so you are knowing, however, I should tell you that I did get into a fight. Nothing serious, just me being too snoopy. I followed this ginger to a hotel, thinking he was a criminal from Montana I saw on a poster at the post office. Turns out he was no such man, just someone meeting a "gentleman caller", if you get the meaning. A big man, too, like the Terminator. I was caught with my ear on his hotel door, and got slammed against the walls by the guy. He even burn me in the arm with his cigar! I still feel sore all over, but at least I got a bandage on the burn. The tattoo may need a touch-up, but that's ok too.

I miss you too, darling, so so much. Every night I go to sleep, thinking of your skin on mine, the smell of your hair, touching your rosey cheeks, nuzzling your neck. As soon as I am home, I'm going to greet you with a bottle of wine, a foot massage, and whatever else you'd ask of your Noah *wink*.

Hugs and kisses, Alice. A thousand of them, until I'm back with you!

Forever your man,

Noah

* * *

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Leopold Yablonski and Terrence Michaels are property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata

Arnold and Clemence Hoffman are property of littlebityamelie

Noah is property of Momagie


	13. Chapter 12

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

* * *

Chapter 12

"One more thing, Janna...I wish I could say it's good to see him making friends, but all I can think of is what a distraction this can prove to be for him. Bishop has a soft, kind heart, and he feels a deep love for people. I don't know if such a heart can survive in a place like that, and if it can't, then he's no good to anyone. Keep an eye on him, alright?"

Sherrod Howe

November 12th, 1994

Leopold Yablonski's Journal, Project Entry #3

Note: Our researchers like your apple theory. Try to see if you can develop it more in your report, in light of this new data.

* * *

July 12th, 1990

Just came back from the healer's. My blood pressure's through the roof, despite all the weight I keep losing, and I'm fairly certain I haven't gotten eight hours of sleep in several months now. He's chalking it up to me working too hard, the people in the Department say it's guilt. I'd more believe the former than the latter, of course. I have nothing to be sorry for.

So far things are going even more swimmingly than I had anticipated. Shensuken won the Integrationist primary, which means he's almost certainly going to win the election. Everyone else is surprised, as last election just one Integrationist was elected to the Senate, and this was cause for a twenty-four hour media coverage. Now, they're poised to take more than a quarter of both houses, and the presidency.

I myself, however, couldn't be less surprised. The Libertarian and Progressive candidates for president are woefully inept, completely out of touch with the people. When Anthony Samuel, the Libertarian candidate, said in his acceptance speech that he was willing to "build bridges" with the Indians, that's when I knew he'd lose.

That said, the Progressive candidate, Juliet Watson, actually does stand a decent chance of beating Shensuken. Based on the polls and demographics of where she is campaigning, I put her at about a 33.33 (repeating) percent chance of winning. That's a larger margin of error than I care to chance. Thankfully, I've a source in New Orleans that suggests she's hiding something about how she maintains her appearance. Her gardener found some fascinating contraband in her garbage not too long ago. Ashwinder egg shells, empty bottles of nacre, and veela feathers. May be indicative of someone brewing Amortentia, which Watson has been trying to ban internationally her entire career.

However, the garbage was confiscated by the New York Alchemic Authority, and is being wrapped up in red tape as we speak. I'll have to screw a few thumbs and call in a few favors to get the Department's hands on it. Once we have it, it should be more than enough probable cause to launch an investigation. I can't say for sure if we'll find anything, but then again that's not the point, is it? The mere question alone should be enough to cut her numbers in half. Besides that, this is no grade-school over-the-counter love potion we're talking about. If she _is_ brewing Amorentia, then there's only one thing she could possibly be using it for. If we're lucky, and the investigation discovers something to that effect…that's one more name for my list.

In any case, an investigation will give me ample access to Watson's notes at the NYAA. She's collected quite a repository in her years at the Authority. There has to be something on the Flamels somewhere in there.

Now for some good news and bad news: The good news is, the governor of Utah has officially thrown his lot in with the Secessionist movement, much as I expected. At this rate nearly every state from here to Minnesota will be breaking away, should Shensuken's bill pass, proving what I suspected. As support for Shensuken grows more fervent, so too do the Separatists.

The bad news is: the Separatists are getting too fervent, and Libertarian philosophy about "local rights" is coming back to haunt them. Several hold-out cities and towns across Libertarian states are being put on watch lists, as "potentially rebellious". Many representatives in several state legislators, and nearly every governor and local military leader is in agreement that they will be free from tyranny "by any means necessary".

To that end, several divisions and regiments are being mobilized near these hot zones, and across the state lines. In other words, the idiots are escalating things too fast. When and if secession does take place, it could mean a civil war. I did not anticipate it would go this far this early. As it is, a war will spell disaster for our plans. Libertarian townships are fortified and isolated as it is, and so much of the United States is just empty space. You couldn't pick a place more vulnerable to a protracted wizarding war. It'll set the plan back years, at least!

Nevertheless, I have to prepare for that eventuality, just in case. Luckily, I have plenty of names floating around the office who may be able to help with that. I already have a sense of whom to pick. The Man in White, and the Knife of Denver. Instruments of Death will be flocking together. Our plan will come to fruition no matter what; it'll just be the manner of when.

Yes...it remains abundantly clear, how pleased we are. I can feel it now, resting in my pocket. Perfection.

* * *

 **Assessment:** Fascinating to note that Yablonski has already begun to deteriorate physically at this point. He wouldn't have made note of it if it weren't bothering him in some way; the life he's leading is causing him some physical pain. Indeed, the symptoms he listed are telltale signs of severe anxiety (meaning he's a mortal man after all). However, they are also textbook symptoms of longterm bewitchment. I've no more answers now than before as to whether there is any credence to Yablonski's beliefs around this artifact, even though he himself clearly still believes in it.

In any case, this may perhaps be the most informative entry I've received so far.

First of all, notice how Yablonski constantly refers to "our" plan. At first I thought he meant this "Man in White" or this "Knife of Denver", but the context clearly shows he hasn't actually met them by this point. Given what you've cared to show me thus far, I can only surmise then, that he refers to either this Apple, Death himself, or both. The delusion (or relationship, depending on the President's point of view), has evolved to the point where it's nearly symbiotic, specifically of a parasitic sort. His decisions now take both of them into consideration. In his mind, they're one and the same in his plan, further exemplifying how transcendent he views himself; like some god.

To that end, he continues to demonstrate his powers of forethought. Here, he both anticipates the secession after Shensuken's election, and works from his position to increase his chances. Additionally, even if he never intended for the war to happen, nor wanted it, he still planned around it. We can infer that he made some form of backup plan, meaning he does indeed have one. Recall his words: "Set our plans back years at least". If he plans his moves for years in advance,

* * *

 _A knock at Bishop's office door made him pause._

" _I know, I'm sorry," he called out, "I just need to finish this last bit of paperwork and I'll go home."_

" _Dr. Bishop, it's Marcy," a woman's voice replied._

" _Oh, hehe, forgive me. I thought you were someone else. You can turn in if you want, I can take it from here."_

" _Oh, thanks doctor," Bishop heard her smile in her voice, "But that's not what I was gonna ask. I've got a package for you from Sergeant Cambridge. The envelope says its urgent, and for your eyes only. Do you know anything about that?"_

" _Mrs. Cambridge? Oh, definitely let's see it, thank you."_

 _After handing the thick manilla envelope over, Marcy left, with a little nervous bow._

 _Bishop took a deep breath, straightened his hair out, and cleared his workspace. After emptying the three papers inside the envelope onto his desk, he began reading the letter at the top._

* * *

All right, doctor? I suspect I'll relax well enough when we win this thing, just thought I'd ask. Let me know if you need any help personally, and I'll be over there as soon as I can. Pleasantries aside, let's get down to brass tacks.

I found some dirt on these letters, and it didn't take all that much digging, to be honest. Whoever's writing you these letters is counting on your ignorance as an outsider. The president hasn't even been the one sending you them.

* * *

 _Bishop gasped, shaking his head as he read on._

* * *

Have a look at these two letters. The first one you'll recognize as the first letter you received from these people. This other document _,_ on the other hand, is a declassified document to the New York Alchemic Authority, with Shensuken's signature in Japanese.

See, Shensuken always writes his signature in Japanese. It's his own little quirk, a nod to his heritage. This isn't exactly common knowledge about Shensuken, but it's by no means a secret. As it happens, his autograph was very coveted before he was elected, back when he was just getting famous for his civil rights activism. Making sure the signature was in Japanese, and not English, was the first thing collectors checked to make sure it wasn't a forgery. However, taking a look at your letter,the signature is in English.

So who has been sending you these letters then? That's our next step, one I'll need your help with.

First and most important of all, keep writing these reports just as you have been. How are we to find out who's behind this if you clue them in we're onto them? Just mail your next report like you normally would, and send me a letter at the return address of when you did so, as well as a description of the owl you use, a name of the animal too, if possible. I'll take it from there.

You're doing great, doctor. Keep it up. We'll get to the bottom of this yet.

* * *

 _Sebastian's hands shook profusely, put the letter down, and wrung his hands together. How could this have happened to him? Why_ did _it have to happen to him? He was just trying to help, he didn't mean to do wrong!_

" _No time for that, Sibs," he said to himself out loud, suddenly snapping out of it, "What did father always say? Stiff upper lip, that's what."_

 _Wasting no time, he took out a blank roll of note parchment, and jotted down everything she said to:_

Friday night, 11pm. The bird is an eagle owl named Sout, dark brown in color, with a milky left eye.

 _Then, his heart heavy with worry, he got back to finishing his work on the last analysis, with much less enthusiasm as before…_

* * *

Dear Diary,

Just sent in the new report, following Janna's instructions. It's in her hands now. I'm liking this less and less, but I can't afford to think about it right now. I've got three new patients to process tomorrow, after three of my regulars were killed in the last excursion. I've got three scheduled appointments on top of that, and I've got rounds due on top of that. Going to need plenty of sleep.

November 13th, 1994

Dear Diary,

It's 4 AM right now. Just woke up in a cold sweat. Bad nightmare, about that boy back at the ranch. The bodies, the scared look in his face when the Killing Curse hit him. He lay there, shriveling into a skeleton, begging me to help him, but I couldn't even move. He was begging, while that bastard executioner pointed his wand at me, freezing me where I stood and yelling at me. I was crying, crying, until waking up just now.

I've had nightmares before, worse than that, but none have affected me physically as much as that dream did. I've never woken up out of breath before, as if I were being suffocated before awaking.

I...I have to confess how I snapped out of it. I'm not proud of it, and I have to jot it down, jsut to put my own soul at peace. I took a pillow in my arms and hugged it tight, like a child with a stuffed bear. I made-believe that I was hugging a woman...and it wasn't Hannah I was thinking of.

It was Clemence Hoffman I imagined cuddling.

Why? Why did I do that? I love my wife, and Clemence is happily married to Arnold. What's wrong with me? She left some weeks ago, and ever since then I've been missing her. Why?! I barely know the woman, I've hardly spoken to her a whole minute, it's mostly Arnold and I that have hit it off.

I'm...lost right now. Now all I can think of is those three men. Brandon Klein, Terry Avalos, Wesley Santos. Night-terrors, bed-wetting, and a facial tick, all listed as at-risk on their charts. I hardly spared a thought of them before they died, they were just three patients out of the dozens that are going through my offices. None of them were interested in talk-therapy after the first session, they just wanted their prescription, and I got it to them, but they all...they thanked me. They said that it worked, and just before they died, they were removed from the at-risk list.

I can't blame myself, they were killed by Rockies, but...they were doing so well. They came so far, none of them were older than 25. Brandon dropped out of school to volunteer, Santos lost his parents, Terry lost his pregnant girlfriend. Terry was going to be a Healer after the war, he wanted to "pick up the pieces" he said. Instead, he got hit with a Blasting Hex in Nevada. Grendelov told me they brought back what was left of him in a bucket.

I hear that...and all I crave is Clemence, sitting me down like she does with the kids. I want her to make me believe that it's all going to be ok, somehow. Maybe that's why I thought of her just now….still no excuse though.

I'll go talk with Father Jacobs in the morning, or during lunch. It's been awhile since I've been to confession. I guess I'm overdue.

November 24th, 1994

Dear Hannah

It's Thanksgiving today (the yank's equivalent to a Harvest Festival), and I hope you're doing well. Thanksgiving is a big to-do here in the states, but I was more or less left out in the cold on the whole affair.

There was turkey, stuffing, candied yams, mash and gravy, and some biscuits for dessert. I piled my plate in the cafeteria, trying to give it a chance again, and this time making sure to sit at a table with totally new people. They at least left me alone, but it was still damn lonely. One thing I never did get used to is the non-overt displays of disgust I get. The name calling and jokes, that's one thing, but when all the people at a cafeteria table move to one side as soon as you sit down, that hurts even worse. I wish I could have eaten with Arnold, but he was with the BG all day, and in the barracks. I couldn't get close to him.

Besides that, even though they didn't insult me, the people at this cafeteria were definitely more bigoted than I was comfortable being around. They didn't use slurs, again it was more covert. I heard one of the lasses saying,

"I feel so terrible for these people, you know? It's not their fault they were born wrong."

In reply, the fellow sitting next to her said, "Yeah, I mean when you treat a culture like we've treated them, it's no wonder they get to be all so ignorant and dangerous. What chance did they have?"

"That's why I really think NACRRA was a mistake. What's the point of granting a bunch of poor, uneducated Indians equal rights if they can barely survive without our help?"

"Well it's not for their sake, is it Sally? It's the next generation. We grant them equal rights, so now the next batch of Indians after the war, they'll more more like us. It all boils down to us not being so backward as we have been. Treat them well, and eventually we'll be able to fix 'em. Like we're washing the red right off of them, you know?"

They all laughed, and once again, it was too hard to listen to. I had to get up.

I would have gone back to that spot in the woods, but it was too wet, so I decided to take my food to go and eat down in the refugee mess hall. Immediately I was called over by one of my patients that I told you about, Keen Elk. He was situated over in the middle of the room with his brother, and all his brother's friends, and asked if I wanted to sit with them. I said yes, and it turned out quite nice.

Little Freebird Tim introduced me to his little dream team, Jigs, Jill, Big and Little Mike, and Hunter. I chatted with them, and they turned out to be great kids, which was a breath of fresh air. You see so many socially maladjusted kids at the clinic, for whom the war has just utterly demolished their spirits. These chaps though, even though they've had to fight hard to survive, they've held onto themselves.

That said, one of them in particular, Big Mike, was especially hard to listen to. He and Little Mike were both from a Libertarian citadel in Wyoming, these walled-off wizarding villages with no contact with the Muggle world whatsoever, the product of the Libertarian philosophy of "local rights". For the first two years of the war, their town remained true to the conviction they voted for, secession. But because of their inconvenient location, it took a while for the "Free State of Wyoming" to even find them. By then, they'd been reduced to eating leather after an air raid from the Union took out their food storage. They'd been able to make it last that long just by using magic, but you couldn't just bring food back like that, once it was destroyed.

By the time the Republic of Rocky Mountains informed them of the dissolution of the Free States, Mike's town was apoplectic and starving, and so revolted. Both the Mikes' parents were killed, and as punishment for their disobedience, Yablonski ordered that they be giving nothing but the bare minimum rations needed to survive. Eventually, Big Mike managed to spirit Little Mike out of there, and trekked on foot to Cheyenne, where they managed to sneak aboard a shipping truck and make it to California. By this point, both of them were skin and bones, he says. He even had to gag Little Mike because he couldn't stop crying from hunger. He didn't know how long it'd be before they up and died, so...Big Mike made a choice.

He snuck into a poor Muggle neighborhood in Los Angeles one night, hoping to steal some food. Two of the home's owners walked in on him as he tried, one of them had a gun. Mike didn't have a wand, so he just ran into another part of the house and hid. In the garage, he found a baseball bat just when one of the Muggles found him and took aim. Before he could get a shot off...Mike tackled him, this 13 year old boy against this grown man, and started hitting him with the bat. He screamed for his brother to call the police as he tried to pull Mike off, but just when his back turned, Mike, on instinct, picked up the Muggle's handgun and shot him until he fell. Then….he turned the gun on the Muggle he tackled, and shot him point-blank in the head.

When Mike heard an old woman's voice coming from upstairs, he took his pack filled with food, and ran. He said he could hear her scream as he bolted down the street….

Few days later, he and Little Mike were found and picked up by Muggle police, who then ran them through the system, allowing California Magical Law Enforcement to get wind of them, and pick them up. They put Big Mike on probation, but didn't press charges beyond that, as he was a minor and this was war. Besides that, much to both my sorrow and lack of surprise, Big Mike said that the attitude towards the men who died was apathetic at best.

"They were only Muggles," he said they told him, "Right in the middle of Bloods territory too. No one's going to miss them."

He started crying then, and all his friends huddled around, with the oldest girl, Jigs, holding him closest of all.

I...I had no words at that. None of these kids even looked surprised. I don't know why I still am, I've heard plenty of similar stories from kids since I've been here. It's just one thing you can't ever get used to. Not sure I'd really want to get used to it anyway.

Anyway, hope this reaches you soon. Happy Thanksgiving. Love you.

Sebastian

December 1st, 1994

Dear Hannah

Me again. Had a heart-to-heart with Arnold today after work. He really made me feel better after the other day. I figured he might. He's been at this much longer than I have.

First, we just shot the bull for a bit. We talked about wandmaking in Great Britain vs the US. We're small enough over home that we can get all our wands from independent wandmakers like Olivander or the McIntyres. Here though, most folks get their wand through Coach Enterprises, a large corporation. They bought out all the small wandmakers decades ago, and now most kids get their wands from them. They're so big, Arnold says, that they've even branched out to making the Union's armor. They've been in bed with MACUSA for a while, you see. To that end, Arnold was telling me how he has to do commercials for them sometimes, over the radio and in the papers. Sad business, his image being used like that, but that's just politics I suppose.

Definitely not what Arnold had in mind though, when he started all this. He just wanted to do rallys like I saw him, and just let his face be seen by the troops. That's all they said he'd be doing, until they pulled him along and roped him into this commercialized propaganda. He confessed it was really hard to swallow, nearly left over it even. But, sure enough, Clemence talked him into keeping at it. Everyone knows he's just doing it as a job, and it doesn't hurt his image at all.

That's not what really bothered him though, I don't think. He wouldn't say, but I got the sense that he just *felt* dirtier, you know? Selling himself like that. He said all he ever cared about was helping people. That's what got him into being mayor in the first place. He came from an abusive home, his birth family died (he wouldn't tell me how), and his foster parents encouraged him to be active towards stopping suffering like he went through.

That's when I told him about why I do what I do. He admitted that as hard as he had it, he figured he couldn't relate to what I must have gone through growing up….looking like this, anymore than I can relate to him. My parents had the good sense to divorce while they could at least stand each other enough to raise me together, and now they're the best of friends.

Point is, I had a better home life, but outside of that, he accepted what I told him; life was hell at Hogwarts. Shunned by the other three houses for being Slytherin, shunned by all the blue-blooded Slytherins who either wanted nothing to do with a "freak" like me, or wanted to keep up appearances. All I had were the ghosts, the professors, and the occasional house elf to talk to. It nearly killed me it did, you know that much.

Strange. I don't normally like to talk about all this, do I? You've muscled enough out of me in the part to understand, but I don't know if I've ever verbalized all this out loud before. Hehe, now I'm wondering if this is how my patients feel. I reckon you must not need to be a psychiatrist to talk people through their problems. You just have to be there for people, for your friends and family. Thus, I'll be going to bed tonight feeling extraordinarily grateful, that I have so many such people in my life, but newcomers, and you.

Make sure to write to me soon. I long to see new writing from you.

Love you, now and always,

Sebastian

* * *

Private Lance's Journal

(Standard Issue - Magical United States of America)

December 9th, 1994

Dear Journal,

Good night tonight. Kim and i finally got to full on fuckin' for the first time since my breakdown those months ago. W/we went to O/our usual spot in the school, spread out some blankets and, well, the rest of history. She left some bruises this time, to make a long story short at least. They hurt damn good, baby. And i gave as good as i got, where it counts at least. She must've sat on my face for a whole half hour, i was dizzy and half conscious by the time She got off me. She gave me what for for not telling Her I needed air, and i told her i just forgot, given the circumstances. She laughed at that, slapped me cross the face, called me a dumbass. You know how She do.

(ok from here on I'm gonna quit with the weird upper lowercase, just because my pencil's out of eraser and it's too late to go get another one)

Then afterwards we just got to cuddling and shit, and then it got more serious. This really was our first time makin' love in forever. First I break down like a bitch, then Kim gets nearly croaked. We keep almost losing each other. We finally had to have that talk, there in each others arms: what do one of us do if the other one doesn't come back one day?

Basically it boiled down to "We keep fighting, we survive, we find someone else to love, we move on." She made me swear on my granddad's grave, but I still don't know if I believed it when I did. She's all I got, man. I lost my parents, my uncle's dead, Jack's either dead or fighting for Yablonski, I don't know which would be worse. Best case scenario he kept his head down and is still in school, but I know his crazy ass ain't done that. If I ain't got Kim, then I have no home to go back to….

Oh well. I just won't think about it. I already promised. I'll just keep doing what I'm doing. That's what I'm gonna do. Yeah.

* * *

December 12th, 1994

 **PRIORITY MAIL: CAPTAIN AARON KANE**

 **Company A, 350th Aethonan Cavalry**

 **EASTERN FRONT**

Dear Aaron,

First of all, I'm ok. Yeah, I did get caught outside, but I swear, there's not a scratch on me. You can see for yourself when you get here (hopefully this reaches you before then).

I guess I wrote too late. Just after I wrote that first paragraph, you ran in on me, hugged me; I mean, well, you were there. Never mind that part. I guess I'll just have to send this now that you went back to the Eastern Front. Just as well. There's one thing I couldn't bring myself to tell you out loud. Hopefully it'll be easier to write than to say.

So there I was, just two days ago, the 10th, and yet again Rocky sends us another air raid. I was just coming out of the bushes after taking a wiz, and was on my way back to barracks when the siren went off. It must have been late this time though, because before I could even have time to react, a dragonflask fell just a couple yards away, left a big damn hole in the ground the size of a car. I ran for the barracks, but they were locked. Then I ran back to the office, completely out of breath by the time I got there, but they were locked too, and there was too much noise the guys in the tower couldn't hear me over the sounds of the bombs dropping. I tried Sonorus, but I was gasping so much I didn't get the pronunciation right, and I was too panicked to stick around to catch my breath,so I just ran to the refugee camp, hoping to find an open place to hide there, dodging bombs as I went, and sending them away with Protego and Wingardum Leviosa.

When I did one lap around the camp and found nothing, it hit me; I was stuck, and the bombings were getting more frequent, more focused on the camp, and reinforcements hadn't come yet. So, I did all I could do; I jumped under a nearby picnic table against a sheet steel shack, burrowed as deep as I could into the mud, and waited.

After a while I was covered in the stuff, blending in really well, and it looked like it was gonna work. Just then though, this thing happened:

Up above me, in the fireworks show, the battle, I heard a scream, like this guy was lower than the rest. I looked up and saw a plume of smoke and fire coming right for me. Thinking it was some kind of spell, I braced myself, only to have it land just a few yards away.

I looked to see what it was. It was a kid...no older than Rachel. 14, 15, I couldn't tell. He had these huge blue eyes, the type which were lighter on the inside than around the edges, like a husky. He was covered in mud too, and blood was coming out of his mouth. He tried to pull himself forward towards, but there was shrapnel in his hand, he couldn't get a grip. That's when I notice the worst thing of all

He's not wearing our uniform, just a white shirt and brown pants. He's a Rocky!

I pull out my wand, ready to strike him down, finish the job, but he just raises up both his hands. He must have lost his wand when he fell. Then he abruptly drops his hands, sighing with exhaustion, and then I hear a hissing sound come from him. Then he starts crying, and just...reaches out to me.

Then another bomb strikes the ground, right where his hand is. I never opened my eyes again to see what was left of him.

I shouldn't be this shaken. This was the enemy we were talking about, and he was attacking us. It was his job to kill me and destroy the base. But….Aaron, he was so young, man. And that was the first time in all of this I actually saw a man die. Always before it was just at a distance. I never had been this close to battle before now, I wasn't even home when the attack first happened.

I don't know how to feel about any of this. I shouldn't feel guilty, I know that, much, but I do. Was I right? Have I been useless this whole time? All because you wanted to "keep me safe"? I don't mean to blame you, but…

I won't, I won't blame you, I'm sorry.

Just write back when you can, brother. I'm so lost.

Love,

Blaine

* * *

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  
Arnold and Clemence Hoffman are property of littlebityamelie  
General Leopold Yablonski is property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata  
Janna Cambridge is property of Event-Horizon-Indigo


	14. Chapter 13

The Potterverse setting is the property of JK Rowling

Chapter 13

"I personally doubt very much that God exists. What's more, I believe the worship of gods has done far more damage to mankind than it ever did benefit. There can be no doubt that for some people, faith can be a motivator towards extraordinary good, but then again, so too can the absence of it."

Sherrod Howe

December 18th, 1994

[ _transcript from December 18th's Daily Wireless Report at Rathlin Academy of the Arts and Magic; Colm Negus reporting]_

 **CN:** And now for International News:

The MACUSA's Department of War has just today declared victory against the Rocky Mountain faction of the Secessionist forces in the state of Idaho, and the western half of the state of Montana. This brings a battle over a month in the fighting to a well-assured close. President Timothy Shensuken held a press conference today in New Orleans just minutes before traveling via Floo Network to the state capital of Boise to speak to the liberated people of Idaho personally. In New Orleans, the American president had this to say:

 **President Shensuken:** _[audio clip]_ This is a magnificent day for my country and for my people. At the great cost of hundreds of young lives, we are now one step closer to re-unifying our great nation. As I prepare to oversee the imminent reconstruction of these states, I ask my fellow Americans to remember that in this victory, the people of Idaho and western Montana are our enemies no more; they are our foes to be sure, and those guilty of the atrocities you are all familiar with, from labor camps to martial law, will be punished to the fullest extent of the law. However, for the widows and orphans their fallen Separatist soldiers have left behind, there must be no animosity. As the wisest and greatest of all Muggle Presidents, Abraham Lincoln, once said in regards to his own rebellious population, quote:

"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may _[boos ensue]_ have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

 **Audience member:** Bullshit, those [ _censored]_ killed my son! Forced my daughter to make potions under the Imperius curse! Lock them up, Tim, every single one of- let go of me!

 **PS:** Thank you, yes, I know this will be a difficult time, but if we are to become a whole Union again-

 **Audience:** [ _erupts in boos and frantic questions from journalists_ ]

 **CN:** It is at this point the President declared an abrupt end to the press conference as several in the audience began shooting hexes at him. Indeed, Shensuken's forgive-and-forget attitude towards what is reportedly a, quote, "liberated", population has directly correlated with a plummet in his already sour approval ratings, particularly among the families of veterans. Time will only tell whether this Union victory will mean for those in Secessionist territory, and for President Shensuken's legacy. And now, sports...

 **PFC J.R. Foxx**

Dear Nick,

Sorry I didn't write to you since last month. I've been going through some bad shit. You'll get an earful in about a minute, don't worry, but first I wanna focus on you. Got a lot of catching up to do.

First, thanks man, for that candy. We had some ourselves for Halloween, and I was mostly joking before, but it's real awesome of you to think of me that much. After the shit we been through, it's not a given that you be cool like that. I knew plenty of kids growing up who'd already been to juvie twice at your age, and they never went through half the shit you did. I'm proud of you, man. It may seem like it wasn't nothing, just some candy, but trust me, it meant a hell of a lot. Remember the Outsiders: Stay golden, pony boy.

Sorry to hear about Thanksgiving. Don't even sweat it though, man. We all have bad days. What matters is, you know what you did, and you ain't gonna do it again. Hopefully I don't have to tell you this but, stay away from those kids from now on, ok? They're just Krysten's friend's kids, they're not family to you. I know you're a loyal guy, but you don't owe them shit. Remember that, and just be glad nobody got hurt this time.

We had another air raid about a week ago, pretty bad one too. We lost a good 4 or 5 flyboys, and half the mess hall got blown to pieces. Lucky for us, we gave more than we got. I reckon we must have shot down 20 of those Rocky motherfuckers. Shit, I almost feel bad for them. They've been taking hits hard lately, we've been gaining more and more headway these past couple months.

Oh, look this up in the papers next chance you get: up north, we've managed to get back Idaho and Rocky-controlled Montana. Can you believe that shit? We took it all last month, we've been fighting to hold onto it ever since. Rocky only retreated the other day, so that's when they declared it officially.

Who knows, by this time next year, the war might be long over at this rate. No promises, but just remember, things are looking pretty damn sweet. I'm just resting up now as much as I can, cuz tonight's the full moon again. I can't say yet what we're gonna do, but they're saying it's not nearly as big as last month. I figured. After November, they gotta be more careful I guess. Can't lose any more guys.

Speaking of, I can't keep you in suspense no more, and you probably want another battle story besides. Well I got one for you, but it ain't pretty. Even less than the last one. I'm gonna be honest man, I'm still not all over it, even though it's been a month. Buckle in, buttercup.

First, yeah, like I said, I didn't write you a letter last month. Part of that's because this time we had to be dropped far into Utah by portkey. We were in deep this time, brotherman. Hunkered down in this friggin Muggle motel, no access to shit except for some crappy magazines and a bible with half the pages missing, a heater that couldn't melt a stick of butter, then even more time resting and recouperating before we could make it back. Even when I did come back….I just wasn't seeing nobody for a while. I was fucked up, man. You'll see why in a minute.

Then it came, the night of November 18th, full-ass moon. Our target: a ranch under Rocky control. That shit's just a cover though. Really, it's a Forward Operating Base and a field command center. Our mission is the same as always. Slaughter every motherfucker in sight, make it a spectacle. Should have known from last month that they'd gotten wise to us, stepped it up from just using other wolves. I couldn't have seen this coming though.

Just like last month, the place was empty. We think we've got it covered though, so before we go charging in, we send in Conner, from Platoon 2, the Red Hoods, to scout it out. Me and the rest of the Crookjaws hang tight out back, and start circling the joint. Just when we make it to the back of the ranch, the side facing this tall hill, the whole place starts getting cold, even colder than it was before. Not like actual cold, though...more like a chill, like a fever.

Then I start feeling all fucked up. I all I wanna do is just sleep and never wake up. I get these flashes in my head of when Mom died, when Dad left before you were born, all those nights and all those years sleeping under that fucking bridge, that time when I almost lost you to those bums in South Sac. I saw you in the hospital, bleeding out, thinking about nothing except how I was gonna explain this shit to the Muggles. I hear myself crying like a fucking dog. That's when Angel nips me on the neck and howls. I turn around. Fifty or sixty huge black cloaks come falling down the mountain, like a big black curtain. I snap out of it as best I can, recognize them right away.

Dementors.

Ain't none of us had our wands on us, and half of us couldn't even use them if we did, so we couldn't do shit but run for our lives, souls, whatever the fuck. We just ran. And they followed. And where we were running to, there were dementors there too. We were surrounded.

So for a second we all just huddled round, whining, unable to talk. One of us, Daniel, made a run through it through a group of the fuckers, but they grabbed him. He went limp, then one of them took down their hood and they….fuck. They took his soul, man. Daniel wasn't just dead. He's fucking gone now.

One by one, we scatter, we're routed, and one by one, same thing that happened to Daniel starts happening to the rest of us. I can't move, can't do shit. So, I cry for help. I howl, hoping someone'll hear us. I could almost swear the more I howled, the more that howl started sounding like the word "help, help, help!" Then some of the other guys started too.

After minutes more of being trapped, being picked off one by one anytime we tried to make a run for it, finally our reinforcements came. They were supposed to be just the garrison for the command center once we took it, but this time they acted as our rescuers, know what I mean? A couple cast a Patronus, while some others flew away on brooms to go get more help. The Patronuses were enough to make a gap in the circle of the bastards, and we just bolted out, and I didn't stop until the sun cracked and I was human again. Then I just crashed down into the sand and passed out. When I came to, I was back in the hotel with my boys. None of us could talk.

Yeah...you know what shit this is, man. I can't imagine what bullshit, I can't even barely write this shit out. You know me, man. One of the only things that kept me going after mama died was knowing I'd see her again one day, that we'd all be together with Jesus. Once the war started, that went for my fallen brothers and sisters too. I knew one day we'd all meet up again in heaven, and all have a group piss off the clouds onto Yablonski's pretty-boy face down in hell.

With Daniel, Greenie, Tex, Jennifer, Harley, Rocko….that's not gonna happen. Their souls were fucking eaten by dementors. They died...and nothing's gonna happen. They're just gonna get buried somewhere, worms'll eat them, and that's it…

Daniel...he wanted to learn to be an acrobate when he got home. Greenie was gonna take his little sister fishing. Tex and Jennifer were gonna move to New York and try to get into politics together. Rocko….he couldn't ever talk about nothing except his daddy, died on the Eastern Front, how he wanted to make him proud so he could see him again in heaven with pride….

Sorry man, I can't

It's just hard, you know. I miss you. I'm sick of being in this fucking desert. I'm sick of people being this fucking ugly to each other. It shouldn't be this hard. We didn't do shit to deserve this. I didn't ask to get fucking bitten. You didn't ask to be my brother. Neither of us asked for mama to die or dad to fucking walk out on us. This shouldn't have been what we had to do to survive. You should never have had to live under that bridge, I shouldn't have had to be forced to give you up just to support you. Daniel and the others shouldn't have had that happen to them.

Daniel...Daniel was only 19 years old. His mama was killed over on the Eastern Front, over in Oklahoma. He had two little brothers just about your age. They want to both be comic book writers, and he was gonna draw the art for them. Now he's not. And his brothers will literally not ever see him again...not in this life, not in the next one.

I just...I can't wait to get the fuck home, man. Be glad you're not here. All's I'm saying.

Love,

Randy

PS I told all this to Dr Bishop too. He said his office is always open if I wanna make an appointments. I'm thinking I'll take him up this time.

December 24th 1994

[ _transcript from the broadcast of Wizarding Wireless Network - America, on Christmas Eve of 1994]_

 **Osmunt:** Happy Holidays, folks, this is Jackson Osmunt with our special Christmas Edition of "Newsreel of the Troops" where we visit the front lines of the war, to speak with just a handful of the countless soldiers and specialists aiding in the fight against Secessionist tyranny. Today, we'll be taking a look at our warriors on the Pacific Front, specifically down in the Mojave, where the fighting has been toughest, and the casualties some of the highest. For these brave men and women, however, Christmas offers a brief, though much-needed reprieve.

For those who don't know, last year's Christmas was marked by a momentous summit between Rocky Mountain General Leopold Yablonski, and our own General Lawrence Juliani, head of the Union forces in the Pacific Coast campaign. With large contingencies of soldiers for both of them, they agreed to meet in Tijuana, Mexico, and discuss a holiday ceasefire, that both of their troops may mutually benefit from a moral boost and much-needed rest.

This year, the two generals met once again, this time in Vancouver, Canada, and once again, agreed to the ceasefire. From about a week ago, December 18th, until January 1st, there shall be no hostilities between Union and Rocky Mountain forces. Meaning our soldiers down in the Mojave now have all the more reason to celebrate, without fear of Secessionist reprisal.

For more on this, we go to Ft. Kelso, California, and our Southern California war correspondent, Sam Holmes, for just how the men and women of the 12th Mounted Infantry Brigade are ringing in the holidays. Sam?

 **Sam:** [pauses to hear transmission] Thanks, Jack. Folks, I've been reporting to you straight from this base for the past year now, and in that time, there has been precious little to celebrate. In the past two years since the war's beginning, roughly sixty-thousand lives have been lost on both sides, between here and Washington state, almost half of which was Muggle collateral damage, and nearly ten thousand of which are made up of wizarding lives lost right here in this desert. Jack, this base, Ft. Kelso, with its hidden position in the small patch of forest, its sizable refugee settlement, and its quaint idyllic neighboring town, has heretofore found itself in the eye of the storm. Private Kaywood, of the 12th Brigade's 3rd Batallion, when asked what it's been like these past years, had this to say:

 **Lance:** It's hard, you know? I mean, I believe in hope, I believe in love, I believe in protecting people, but it's hard, brah. It's lonely, because you make friends out here, you have to trust them to watch your back and protect you, and then they keep dying. Maybe you got a family, maybe you can write to them sometimes, but for some guys, they don't. They don't have a family to write to, so like, especially being around Christmas and all, that can make it even worse, because everyone else is all happy and [bleep]. I know if I didn't have my girl in my corner, I don't know how I'd get out of my bunk in the morning.

 **Sam:** Truly, this has got to be a harrowing experience, one I have only caught glimpses of from the sidelines as a reporter, and one I would not wish on anymone. In the famous 99th Armored Regiment, one Private Foxx, also reports:

 **Randy:** I mean I get it, I get why we're fighting, I'm not sorry I signed up, but...it's gonna be hard having to live life after this, know what I mean?

 **Sam:** However, with the recent victory against Rocky in Idaho and Montana, and the long ceasefire, now in full swing, what we're seeing is a true wizarding Christmas celebration, not unlike the kind you'd see in Kelso before the war. Of course, back then, the base did not exist, nor the refugee settlement, but that has just meant more folks showing the holiday spirit!

 **Lance:** Yeah brah, that does help a lot. I mean if we weren't winning, what's the point, right? What are my boys dying for? Why is my girl putting her life on the line? It can't be for nothing, and yeah man, like you said, it's not.

 **Randy:** It does feel good knowing we're making a difference. And with Christmas and all, it's almost starting to feel normal for a change. Like before the war.

 **Sam** : As I walk through the base and settlement, there's makeshift colored lights lining every doorway, tinsel hanging in the mess halls and barracks, christmas trees, decorated with arts-and-crafts decorations made by the hands of refugee children living right here in this...I can only describe it at this point as a town-as an extension of Kelso itself. The two groups have begun to bleed together so much, it's hard not to be warmed by it.

We now have children from the town of Kelso visiting, and playing with war orphans living in the camp. We have citizens of Kelso, men and women of all creeds, coming down to the camp chapel to have mass with the resident Father Jacobsen.

Most heartwarming of all, has been the recent visit to Ft Kelso by wizarding representatives of the LDS church, a group which, despite it's sharing a central location with the Rocky Mountain capital, Salt Lake City, has been one of the Union's most fervent allies in the fight against the Secessionists, having offered medical professionals, supplies, funding, and safe passage to Canada for refugees.

Folks, what we have here, all these lights, the echoes of caroling coming from down the hill in the camp, an-and up towards the town, Kelso, itself, has all been put together by the Mojave Chapter missionaries, recently come to Kelso, to bring the joy of Christmas to those who may need it most right now.

Elder Avocadro, dressed in full Clad as Santa Claus, and looking the part naturally, even out of costume, had this to say:

 **Avocadro:** We are on a mission from God, Sam. I truly believe that, and I believe that it's the Lord's will that we do what we can. That's why I and so many others of our church have come together.

 **Sam:** Can you tell our listeners what you hope to accomplish?

 **Avocadro:** Well despite what the Muggle face of our church might have to say about "witchcraft", the truth is magicians are, and have been, a part of the LDS church since its inception. Going into this venture, the church leadership in charge of the magical faithful, no doubt believed that this was our chance to prove to the church that we had just as much a place in our faith as our African American brothers and sisters were acknowledged as having in 1978. However, none of us, certainly not I, would be here if we didn't truly care about helping people. So for us, that's our main reason for doing what we do. I can't speak for the others, but I strongly believe that God wants us to thrive in this life before even thinking about living in the next.

 **Sam:** And if I may say so, on the record, Elder Avocadro, it's nothing short of inspirational seeing what you've done, how you've put your life on the lines just to make folks feel better for the holidays.

 **Avocadro:** Aw, gosh….I mean it means a lot to hear you say that, Sam. It's hard to have hope in times like these, but what choice do we have? If we can't help each other, what's the point?

 **Sam:** That all said, however, I understand your particular missionary group has come under some harsh criticism as of late, from the Pacific Herald and even much of the MACUSA. Several of your organization have begun setting up clinics in Arizona and Nevada, taking in wounded and dying from _both_ sides of the war, not just the Union.

 **Avocadro:** Ahhh, yes. I figured you might ask about that...well Sam, the truth of the matter is it truly is Yablonski who is our enemy, not these footsoldiers. It's not their fault they were lied to, or coerced into fighting. Some of these so-called "soldiers" are as young as twelve years old, many are only fighting under pain of death. When we find a _child_ dying in the sand, it doesn't matter to us whether he's wearing blue or if he's wearing white. Just that he or she needs our help.

 **Sam:** Well, Elder Avocadro, that could be seen as an admirable attitude. I hope the military command and your missionaries might come to an understanding in the future, and again, I thank you for your service for our troops.

 **Avocadro:** The pleasure is mine, Sam. God bless.

 **Sam:** For 'Newsreel of the Troops' I'm Sam Holmes. Back to you, Jack.

 **Major Vadim Rumi**

Son,

Merry Christmas to you. Please find enclosed with this letter, a card made by Pietra. She sent it to me first so that I could sign it. I confess, I was surprised that she spared a thought for you. Sofia insists it is all my doing. I'm the only one who will tell Pietra about her father. Evidently I must be leaving a good impression. In any case, I am glad some part of her might reach you in time for Christmas. She may not remember you, but she still loves you every bit as much as when she was a babe.

I'll admit, I can't help but feel nostalgic as I read this. We took back Idaho and Rocky-Mountain Montana, and the ceasefire is in full effect. Everyone is outside celebrating, I imagine Pietra and Sofia are doing the same with her new man and his family. It's all gotten me thinking about when you and I first celebrated Christmas. A lifetime ago, before the invasion of Afghanistan made me who I am today.

I remember your mother and I first settling into our new home in Leningrad. Officially none of us in the Bureau were permitted to celebrate Christmas (for obvious reasons), so we had to do it in secret. We had no tree, we played no Christmas music, lest the neighbors hear us. We merely sat around the fireplace, with you, and with some stockings hung on the mantle. Giguyana read to us every gospel account of the birth of Christ, and then led us in a hushed round of Little Russian Children. For dinner I made us a roasted ham, while your mother made us some candied yams and mixed vegetables. I held her close from behind as she mashed them into a paste so you could eat it.

It's a tragedy...I don't know if I can remember Giguyana's face anymore, but I remember her smell vividly. Her hair always held the smell of dried mint leaves and clean linens, with a soft sour undertone from her dandruff. To this day, it remains my favorite smell in the world, although I've not smelt it in decades, and shall never smell it again….

It was all different after the war. After Kabal. After they pinned those damn badges on my robes and labeled me Hero of the Soviet Union, Order of Merlin. I know I wasn't around much after that. I curse myself every day for it, as I'm sure you did.

Bah. I don't want to write about this anymore. What else has been going on? Well, lots come to think of it.

The damn Mormons are still here, and they're not likely to leave until after Christmas. Damn traitors. Put on a costume of Father Frost and get a few brats to make googoo eyes at them for the camera, and the general is putty in their hands. Now I have to sit here and watch while they sleep in my camp and distract my soldiers, all the while their people are fraternizing with the enemy. Doesn't matter how many little people in Yablonski's ranks. They're all of them just going to run back to him and kill our people. My people. Compassion; it has no place in war. Harsh words, but it is true. Anyone who'd say otherwise? It's only a matter of time before they're proven wrong, one way or another.

Well, at the very least the ceasefire is, like I said, a well-deserved break on all of us. Brigadier General Green has grown despondent as of late. She misses her husband, I figure. Natural, I suppose. She's a smart woman, that dwarf, and an excellent strategist. It's only her soft heart that'll doom us if we're not careful.

I'll leave you with this, son:

Keep hold of the good memories, if you can, but strengthen your heart as well. Remember where you came from, let it give you a reason to survive in that place, but all the same, _do_ survive. And please, this holiday, consider writing back sometime.

Signed,

Your Father

 **Corporal Sean Kane**

Dear Rachel,

Merry Christmas, honey. I hope you don't forget to say your prayers tonight, we all could need them. Not a day goes by anymore I don't praise Jesus for keeping us all alive through this, but tonight on his birthday that goes double. I've saved up a couple of presents for you over the past years since I left. I'd send them to you if I could, but right now they're only sending mail in and out of Texas. Security I guess. No matter. You'll get them someday, I promise.

I know I'm having an amazing Christmas. The ceasefire is well underway, and we have plenty to celebrate besides. The Republic fought off the Union in Idaho, finally, after a terrible month or so. It took a lot, but Idaho is still with us. I've got a nice merlot in my hand right now, a belly full of juicy ham and sweet potatoes, and no Yankees to fight off. Nobody's gonna ruin that for me, although plenty have tried. Some seditioners were caught the other day trying to spin some bullshit about how we lost Idaho, called the General a liar. He strung them up on the spot, and rightly so. We're fighting this war too hard to let some pussy cowards try and scare people with tall tales.

It was a beautiful dinner, hun. Leopold was at the head table looking down on us, there was laughter, singing, especially some of the new anthems. They're saying before long we'll have our own new pledge of allegiance. There was nothing like all of that, sis. Seeing that even after this war is over, we'll have a real society. This is what we're fighting for; own own land.

I didn't even tell you the best part, though. Right at the General's side with all his lieutenants and advisors, was this family, the Lorsens. They were from Kansas, but lived in a town that voted against Secession. Even under the new Republic they were vocally pro-Union (why Great Plains allows that shit to stand is beyond me, but whatever). Then the Yankees came and proved just how wrong they were. Those damn Unionists didn't care a whit that they were on their side. They were in Kansas, Kansas is on the Secessionist side, and that made them guilty enough. They massacred the place, took their supplies, and ran. Probably got medals for it, the bastards.

This family though, they survived, and have been running all over the Republics telling their story. Now they have the honor of sitting with General Leopold himself! It's amazing, Rachel. They have a little girl about your age. Seeing her chatting and laughing with the General really gives me hope for you.

Haven't seen that freak again since I spilled the beans on him. The General was furious, said he'd "talk" to him, never saw him again. That's how the General does things, with strength.

Anyways, I'll keep you in my prayers tonight, baby sister. I miss you so much. I love you more than words can say. For now, consider my Christmas gift to you tonight the promise that we are going to see each other again before you know it, I'll show you how you've been lied to, and we'll never miss a Christmas together again.

Love,

Sean

 _Sebastian winced as he gazed at the calendar from his bed._

December 25th, 1994

 _He'd worked all the way through Christmas Eve; nine appointments, seven or eight dozen potion prescriptions that needed a signature, rounds, two meetings with his staff and the BG, respectively, and three hours worth of paperwork. He hadn't gotten to go to sleep until two in the morning, and barely slept a wink since waking now at around nine. That wasn't the worst thing._

 _No...Hannah's birthday was six days ago, and he had completely forgot. He should have sent her a letter long before then, with her presents. Instead they lay in the corner, unwrapped and already gathering dust. A teddy bear, a stocking full of her favorite sweets, some photos, and a handful of cards he'd acquired from children in the camp. His heart broke as he looked into the bear's bead-button eyes and it's stitched-in smile. He knew the thought was juvenile, but he couldn't help but feel ashamed that the bear wouldn't have his wife to cuddle with this Christmas morning._

 _Maybe he could write a letter now, date it a much earlier date, and pretend it just had taken a long time to get to her? He bit his lip at the idea._

No, _he thought,_ I'll be honest with her. I have to be. She'll understand, she knows I'm busy. She's never minded before...

[ _Excerpt from_ Letters to Sister, _Chapter 7]_

By this time, word had begun to spread among the kids at the camp, and even a few grown ups (most of them other Na-Dene people). Aside from my Dream Team, nobody really took it that seriously until Two-Bows and his granddaughter Bella walked into our meeting place at Father Jacobsen's place. He didn't say anything of course, just took a seat right next to me. One of the men took a knee and asked if it was true, and Two-Bows just shrugged and put his arm around my shoulder. Everyone understood. He couldn't remember having the vision, but he trusted me.

So now the big question was, what we were going to do about it if the military wasn't going to? Obviously I had no answers, I was just a kid, so I deferred to my elders on this case. There were three men who I have to credit as the principal engineers of the plan; "Slick Tom" Van Gogh, Andy O'Neil, and none other than my very own teacher, Mr Taylor. We'll call him Mako from here on out, on account of that's what I started calling him outside the classroom (hell, if being co-conspirators doesn't put you on first-name basis, what does, eh?)

Slick Tom was this half-blood con artist who'd been to county jail a couple times and managed to escape once. He was in charge of drawing us a map and a path. Andy was one of the BG's personal guards, and he'd give us the scoop as to what Yablonski was up to, so we could know if the base had a good chance of falling. Mako ran logistics; he kept record of everyone in on the plan and made sure it was kept under wraps. If anyone found out about what Andy was up to, they'd have his ass for sure.

Essentially the plan was to get everyone in the camp to follow Piote Mountain Road around the perimeter of the base, hang a left at Alpha Post guard tower, then make a run for it halfway between there and Beta Post, where the largest distance between guard towers was.

Beyond that, well, I'll bore you with the intimate details in a few pages, but for now I'll get to the next letter. It was Christmas by this point and our little conspiracy was still in its infancy, with my Dream Team just trying to survive as best we could. Note as well that this is the first time I ever actually coined the term "dream team" for my friends. Seemed to fit at the time, but I'll let you be the judge.

Dear Lil Cricket,

Marry Christmas! Keep staying alive out there, your doing super! Were you there when we took Iduhoe back? Must have been cool!

First things first. I got good news. We've got lots of people in our plan now, 30 kids and 8 grown ups, including Two-Bows and Bella, his grandawter! Three of them, Slick Tim, Andy, and Mr. Taylor my teacher all came up with a plan to get us out of here if Yablonsky comes. I'd tell it to you, but I can't risk someone else reading this letter, so for now you just gotta trust us.

For now, we're just tryna enjoy Christmas. For dinner tonight they served fresh hot turkey, cranberry sauce, ham, sweet potatoes, the 's loving it the most because they've lifted rations limit for the night so he can eat as much as he want! How has he still stayed so fat all this time I wonder?

They even served Navajo fry bread, like Ama used to make for Christmas! Wasn't as good, but it's still awesome they thought about us. Althoe you know Elk, he wasn't that impressed. He was all "We're not all Navajo, you guys realize that?" I said sorry for him to the cooks.

After dinner that Mormon guy came in dressed as Santa and let us have our pick from his bag (it was bigger on the inside). Lil Mike was a real dork, cuz he thought he really was Santa, but I wasn't gonna burst his bubble for him. Everyone knows Santa isn't coming back to America until the war's over.

We still got some good stuff thoe. I got myself a cool magnifying glass, and Jill got herself the book for Dungins and Dragons. She she and Jigs' dad used to hold games every month with all her cousins. She thinks two of them are still alive, stationed in Oklahoma. Anyway, she said before her dad died, she started learning how to put on a game herself. Now that she has a book, she can finish what she started, maybe put on a game for our little dream team!

Jigs and Big Mike were kind of gross today, more than usual. I found them kissing under the missile toe in the mess hall. Lil Mike thought they were "cute" he says. I had to give him a wedgie for that, haha!

Meanwhile Jill and I met up with this group of older kids from the high school in town and learned some Christmas carols. She refoosed to sing, Jill, but I got to sing one hell of a round of "Little Town of Bethlahem". I think she was impressed.

After all that, we met back up at a campfire, and it got quiet. We just started chatting and showing off what the Mormons got us when out of nowhere, Dr Bishop sprang up on us! He said he didn't really know anyone else to spend the holiday with, and he just finished all the work he had to do, so he asked if he could sit with us for the rest of the night. Of course we said yes.

He told us all about England, about the school he went to as a kid, Hogwarts. All I knew about it before was that was where Albus Dumbledor lives, so it was cool hearing him talk about what it's like. They got a giant squid there, elfs make them food three meals a day, and they even got ghosts running around! That sounded cool to me, but it gave Elk the creeps. Says that Dene don't associate with dead magicians, that it's asking for trouble. I guess I can see his point, but I still think it sounds cool.

Only thing Dr Bishop did to _really_ mess up was he called Jigs a witch by accident. I was sure Elk was going to have a gasket at that. Of course Dr Bishop's not from around here, so he didn't even realize what he did.

I explained how we want to be called "magicians", that witch and wizard mean different things for our culture, and it's considered a rotten thing to call us. Good thing was he said he was sorry right away. That crap is supposed to be over now that the president's law passed. Why else are we having this war in the first place, right?

Anyways, even though the doc made Elk all mad, after lights-out was called, Elk offered to walk him home. Turns out he's staying at a farmhouse in town. Must be nice, having his own room, I figured.

Just when I was thinking that, the mama in the house offered to let us stay the night. One of their kids was off in Bakersfield staying with her husband's family for Christmas, so they had an extra bed. I wanted to say yes right away, but I'm no dummy. I asked Elk if it was ok. He bit his lip and blushed like an apple, but he said yes!

That's right, sister. I'm writing this in a big old bed, snuggled up with big brother, just like we used to. Honestly, I call this a Christmas miracle, don't know about you. A white family opening its doors to a couple cherry-faced orfans? This is probably the best thing that's happened to me since the war started. For once, I think we're gonna be okay. The plan, the other kids, the adults, all of it. I really think we're gonna make it through this, for the first time since all this started.

Don't give up hope, big sister. People can still be good after all. Stay safe, fight hard.

Love,

Freebird

Sherrod Howe is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Sean Kane is property of littlebityamelie


End file.
